99£ 


LOUISBURG  SQUARE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NBW  YORK  •   BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •  DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 

MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


No.  8  Louisburg  Square 


LOUISBURG   SQUARE 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

ELISE  AMES 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1917 

All  rightl  Ttttrvid 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published,  March,  1917. 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  MOTHER 

"No  spring  nor  summer's  beauty  hath  such  grace 
As  I  have  seen  in  one  autumnal  face.1' 

Brookline  1915-1916 


2135S82 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    AN    INTRODUCTION    TO    EIGHT   LOUISBURG 

SQUARE i 

II  EXPLAINING  GENERAL  WASHINGTON      .      .  12 

III  WHAT  WAS  SAID  AT  TEA 20 

IV  GARY  BUYS  A  CHRISTMAS  PRESENT  ...  35 
V  DEALING  CHIEFLY  WITH  CHRISTMAS     .     .  44 

VI  THE  FANCY  DRESS  BALL 58 

VII  OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN 72 

VIII  INTO  THE  FIRE      . 88 

IX  WHAT  HAPPENED  IN  AIKEN       ....  100 

X  PRELUDE  SEVENTEEN 112 

XI  NEW  THOUGHTS  FOR  OLD 125 

XII  AFTER  THE  CONCERT 136 

XIII  WHAT  PATRICIA  THOUGHT 145 

XIV  A  CONVERSATION  IN  THE  SQUARE     .      .      .164 
XV  A  RUMOUR 179 

XVI    WHICH  CULMINATES  IN  A  SECOND  LETTER 

TO  CAMILLA 193 

XVII     MISFORTUNES  NEVER  COME  SINGLY  .      .      .  204 
XVIII    A  SHORT  CHAPTER  BUT  AN  IMPORTANT  ONE  217 

XIX    THE    SUN    GOES    DOWN    IN    LOUISBURG 

SQUARE 226 

XX    SOME   LETTERS,   AN   ENGAGEMENT,   AND  A 

TELEGRAM 240 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XXI 

XXII 
XXIII 
XXIV 

XXV 


CULMINATION 257 

DEAD  NARCISSUS 274 

A  DECISION  TO  MAKE 293 

A  DECISION  MADE 306 

THE  WORLD  SET  FREE 316 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


LOUISBURG  SQUARE Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


ROSALIND  .     ., 73 

PATRICIA 148 

QUIETLY  SHE  CLOSED  THE  LITTLE  BOOK    .     .     .     .211 
ERIC  STOOD  BESIDE  THE  WINDOW 270 


LOUISBURG  SQUARE 


LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

CHAPTER  I 

AN   INTRODUCTION   TO   EIGHT   LOUISBURG   SQUARE 

MR.  SINGLETON  SINGLETON,  attired  in 
his  flowered  silk  wrapper,  reclined  at  length 
upon  a  chintz-covered  ottoman  and  stared 
passively  through  the  frosted  panes  of  his  study  win- 
dow. For  a  long  time  he  had  held  himself  motion- 
less, with  so  much  unnatural  stiffness  in  his  pose  and 
so  much  unnatural  dulness  in  his  eye  that  he  seemed 
scarcely  alive.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  great  invalid,  a 
potential  paralytic,  whose  potentiality  increased  with 
the  passage  of  years,  as  if  it  were  a  tender  flower 
watered  by  the  curative  baths  prescribed  by  his  doc- 
tors. 

But  he  had  not  always  been  a  passive,  white  old 
man,  who  spoke  only  at  the  rarest  intervals,  and 
who  lived  almost  a  hermit  in  his  house  at  8  Louis- 
burg  Square.  Once  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  had 
been  the  flower  of  Boston's  young  men.  Educated 
abroad,  he  had  returned  with  a  reputation  for  wild- 
ness  and  a  large  fortune,  both  guarantees  to  popu- 
larity. The  best  dancer,  the  most  fluent  speaker, 
possessed  of  exquisite  manners  and  unlimited  means, 
to  mothers  eligible,  to  fathers  agreeable,  to  daugh- 
ters engrossing,  he  had  early  become  a  lion  of  so- 
ciety. His  exercise  was  taken  in  the  ball  room,  his 

I 


2  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

business  transacted  over  the  tea-table;  he  was  to  be 
the  catch  of  the  season.  No  lady  with  a  pretty 
daughter  but  kept  an  eye  on  his  goings  and  comings ; 
no  father  with  a  doubtful  income  but  took  him  aside 
at  the  Sarcophagus  Club  for  a  chat.  But  Mr.  Sin- 
gleton Singleton  deftly  avoided  all  the  nets  spread 
to  enmesh  him  and  by  degrees  became  a  confirmed 
bachelor.  Far  from  necessitating  his  withdrawal 
from  the  ball-room,  his  single  blessedness  served 
rather  to  stimulate  his  interest  in  society.  He  never 
missed  a  ball;  neither  waltz  nor  two-step  passed 
without  his  nimble  figure  gliding  through  the  dancers. 
As  a  cotillion  leader  he  was  perfection.  It  came  to 
be  a  recognised  thing  that  unless  Mr.  Singleton  Sin- 
gleton led  your  cotillion,  your  ball  could  not  really 
achieve  success.  By  the  pyrotechnical  journals  he 
was  established  as  the  social  leader  of  Boston,  and 
in  that  eminent  position  reigned  for  a  score  of  years, 
alone  and  undisputed.  Yet  despite  the  tinsel  of  his 
position,  despite  the  hideous  unreality  of  calling 
cards  and  cutaways,  there  was  in  him  that  ability 
to  love  which  dignifies  humanity. 

All  men  must  have  their  day,  however,  and  Mr. 
Singleton  Singleton  had  his.  The  hilarious  tide  of 
modern  dances  surged  into  the  ballroom.  A  man 
to  whom  Strauss  was  perfection,  with  perhaps  a 
polka  for  variety,  naturally  found  ragtime  barbaric 
and  impossible.  In  dismay  this  arbiter  of  society 
forbade  the  one-step  and  the  maxixe,  but  the  waves 
would  not  listen  to  Canute.  In  a  year  Mr.  Singleton 
Singleton  was  a  changed  man ;  and  when  the  cotillion 
went  out  of  vogue,  at  the  same  time  he,  too,  went  out, 
for  the  one  thing  which  he  could  do  supremely  well 
was  no  longer  the  thing  to  do.  Retiring  from  the 
world  of  society,  he  shut  himself  up  in  Louisburg 


EIGHT  LOUISBURG  SQUARE  3 

Square,  and  thereafter  the  only  intimation  which 
Boston  had  that  this  once  brilliant  social  light  had 
not  entirely  gone  out,  was  an  occasional  glimpse 
of  a  long,  paralytic  figure  being  driven  through 
the  parkway  in  a  victoria. 

This  is  by  way  of  explaining  why  on  this  clear, 
crisp  December  morning  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton 
reclined  on  his  chintz-covered  ottoman,  gazing 
passively  out  of  the  frosty  window.  He  did  this 
simply  because  there  was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do. 
For  years  he  had  sat  there  every  morning  on  the 
same  chintz-covered  ottoman,  staring  idly  out  of  the 
same  window  with  unspeculative  eyes.  He  seldom 
looked  at  anything  in  particular.  After  all,  what 
was  the  use?  He  was  only  waiting;  for  such  people 
there  is  no  field  of  vision. 

This  morning,  however,  his  eye  had  fallen  on  the 
chimney-pot  across  the  way.  He  frowned  at  it.  It 
did  not  offend  him  that  the  house  should  have  a 
chimney-pot,  for  they  were  necessary  evils;  but  this 
particular  chimney-pot,  the  most  elevated  and  salient 
feature  of  the  Square,  was  made  of  green  tin.  All 
day  long  the  sun  shone  upon  the  innovation.  En- 
hanced by  the  surrounding  snow,  its  blatant  green 
dazzled  offensively,  shocking  his  proprietary  interest 
in  the  Square  —  that  quaint,  semi-impregnable  cor- 
ner of  the  past  which  was  so  very  dear  to  him.  Since 
John  Singleton  Copley  had  owned  the  whole  of  the 
west  slope  of  Beacon  Hill,  some  member  of  his 
family  had  always  dwelt  there.  It  was  in  the  Copley 
blood  to  love  Louisburg  Square,  and  Mr.  Singleton 
Singleton  was  the  oldest  of  the  Copley  blood.  And 
then  it  was  such  a  sympathetic  place  to  wait  in! 
With  its  dying  elms,  its  faded  brick  houses,  its  cobble 
pavement  and  wrought-iron  fence,  all  now  clothed  in 


4  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

white  by  the  late  snowfall,  it  seemed  like  himself  to 
be  waiting  for  Something  to  come  and  sweep  it 
away.  To  feel  this  similarity  was  natural.  Each 
step  of  the  march  of  progress  in  the  Square  wounded 
him.  Bad  enough  to  see  a  convent  established  at 
number  21,  and  be  compelled  forever  to  be  stared 
down  by  its  lofty  motto  —  per  augusta  ad 
augusta  — ;  bad  enough  to  have  number  2  turned 
into  a  boarding-house  for  theological  students,  with- 
out the  Misses  Hepplethwaite  across  the  way  — 
Jane  and  Joan,  whom  he  had  known  from  their  child- 
hood —  decorating  their  chimneys  with  green  tin. 
From  the  artistic  point  of  view  it  offended;  regarded 
as  a  symbol  of  progression,  it  was  mortal. 

Somewhere  in  the  house  buzzed  a  refined  electric 
bell ;  the  sound  came  to  the  invalid's  ear  as  if  through 
rolls  of  thick  velvet. 

"  Dr.  Gary  to  see  you,  sir."  A  servant  had 
quietly  entered  the  room. 

As  if  reluctant  to  leave  off  staring  out  of  the  win- 
dow, Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  slowly  turned  his  head, 
but  did  not  speak.  He  seldom  spoke  to  his  friends, 
never  to  his  servants. 

"  He's  in  a  great  hurry,  sir,"  the  servant  went  on. 
'  You'll  see  him,  won't  you?  He's  coming  up." 

There  was  a  quick,  light  step  on  the  stairs  outside, 
and  a  little  man  with  steel  blue  eyes  hurried  into  the 
room.  Dressed  in  white  from  top  to  toe  save  for  a 
black  satin  tie,  he  was  a  perfect  picture  of  hygienic 
spick-and-spanness.  To  the  casual  observer  Dr. 
Gary  scarcely  appeared  a  distinguished  surgeon  and 
the  recently  appointed  Chief  of  the  new  Longwood 
Hospital;  but  if  in  a  crowd  of  men  his  stature  handi- 
capped him,  the  incision  of  his  speech  and  the  keen- 


EIGHT  LOUISBURG  SQUARE  5 

ness  of  his  eyes  soon  betrayed  his  genius.  About 
him  floated  the  dry,  clean  odour  of  hospitals,  which, 
when  one  stood  in  his  presence,  made  the  nostrils 
tingle  not  unpleasantly.  With  all  his  spotlessness, 
however,  it  was  readily  visible  from  the  lines  in  his 
face  that  he  was  the  busiest  man  alive.  Like  all 
great  leaders  he  was  daily  overworked,  but  loved 
and  gloried  in  the  stress  of  life.  It  suited  him  ex- 
actly to  live  on  a  schedule,  to  have  just  so  much  time 
for  meals,  so  much  for  committees,  and  so  much  for 
correspondence.  To  live  eagerly  and  zealously  is 
actually  to  live. 

"  Sorry  to  be  rude  and  not  wait,  Tony,"  he  cried 
even  before  he  reached  the  room.  "  I'm  in  a  dread- 
ful hurry.  Have  a  committee  at  State  House  on 
pure  milk  at  eleven-thirty,  so  I  can  only — " 

Dr.  Gary  did  not  finish  what  he  had  begun  to  say. 
It  was  his  custom  not  to  waste  time  on  obvious  con- 
clusions. Grasping  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton's  list- 
less hand,  he  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down  beside 
him. 

"  Well,  how  are  you  to-day?  "  he  rattled  on,  evi- 
dently busied  only  in  his  conversation,  while  in  reality 
making  a  keen  observation  of  his  friend's  condition. 
"  Haven't  been  in  for  some  time,  have  I  ?  Thought 
I'd  better  drop  in  this  morning  on  the  way  to  the 
State  House.  They're  trying  to  lower  the  milk  re- 
quirements. Outrageous.  .  .  .  Never  could  see 
why  you  persisted  in  living  up  here  on  this  hillside 
.  .  .  Let  me  feel  your  pulse,  will  you?  ...  It  al- 
most breaks  the  motor  every  time  I  come  to  see  you, 
and  with  the  snow  it's  like  climbing  the  Himalayas. 
Should  think  you'd  feel  as  if  you  were  sliding  off  into 
the  Charles  all  the  time  .  .  Good!  Pulse  bet- 


6  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

ter.  .  .  .  Mt.  Vernon  St.  seems  a  little  more  per- 
pendicular every  time  I  —  what  are  you  pointing  at, 
Tony?" 

Mr.  Singleton  Singleton's  long,  pale  hand  was 
stretched  out  toward  a  corner  of  the  room. 

"Desk?" 

The  invalid  nodded  assent. 

"What  is  it?  On  top?  Oh!  This  envelope 
for  me?  What  is  it?  Shall  I  open  it?  " 

His  friend  nodded  again. 

"  Hullo !  "  cried  Dr.  Gary  in  surprise,  as  he  tore 
across  the  envelope.  "What's  this  for?  A  thou- 
sand dollars !  You  don't  owe  me  a  thousand  dol- 
lars, Tony!  " 

"  Services."  At  length  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton 
spoke;  one  dull  word,  accompanied  by  a  ghost  of  a 
smile. 

Dr.  Gary  folded  up  the  cheque  and  put  it  back  in 
the  envelope. 

"  My  dear  Tony,  how  many  times  do  I  have  to 
say  that  I  won't  take  anything  from  you  ?  Services, 
indeed!  If  we  weren't  the  oldest  friends,  do  you 
suppose  I'd  take  the  time  to  come  and  straighten  you 
out  every  so  often.  Here  — " 

Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  shook  his  head,  and  spoke 
again.  "  Hospital." 

'  You  mean  to  give  it  to  the  Longwood?  "  Dr. 
Gary's  eyes  snapped  with  pleasure.  "  Good !  We 
always  need  more  free  beds.  You're  most  kind, 
most  kind.  You're  a  blessing  to  the  hospital, 
Tony  I "  The  doctor  moved  to  the  window. 
"  Lord !  It's  a  glorious  day  out !  Do  you  see  how 
the  snow  sparkles?  You  don't  miss  any  day  out- 
doors?" (Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  shook  his 
head).  "  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  You  ought  to  find 


EIGHT  LOUISBURG  SQUARE  7 

the  sleighing  wonderful.  .  .  .  Hullo,  here's  your 
goddaughter  outside.  Beautiful  girl,  Tony.  And 
to-day  she  looks  — " 

A  happy  glow  came  over  Mr.  Singleton  Single- 
ton's face.  Very  slowly  he  arose  from  his  ottoman 
and  moved  to  the  window  with  an  uncertain,  heavy 
step,  suggesting  for  all  the  world,  as  Dr.  Gary  took 
his  arm  to  help  him,  a  great  leviathan  being  warped 
into  its  dock  by  a  smart  little  tug. 

"  There  she  is.  See  her?  Lean  a  little  this  way. 
There !  She's  talking  to  some  one.  One  of  the 
Hepplethwaites,  I  think.  Live  opposite,  don't 
they?"  The  invalid  nodding  absently,  Dr.  Gary 
rambled  on.  "  Rosalind  is  a  lovely  girl.  By 
George,  I  wish  she  were  my  goddaughter!  You 
should  have  married  yourself,  Tony;  then  you 
wouldn't  have  had  to  steal  one  of  your  cousin's  chil- 
dren like  this.  I  swear  I  should  think  Jack  would 
be  jealous,  you  have  her  here  so  much.  But  I  can't 
blame  you." 

Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  beamed  in  his  paralytic 
way,  as  men  always  do  and  always  will  at  praise  for 
what  is  nearest  to  their  hearts. 

"  I  often  tell  my  son,  Ben  —  you  haven't  seen 
Ben  for  ages,  have  you?  —  I  often  tell  Ben  I  wish 
he'd  get  to  know  her.  Ben's  worse  than  you  were 
when  you  were  young.  He  won't  look  at  a  girl; 
thinks  they're  silly  things,  an  entirely  different  species 
from  man.  I  suppose  that's  because  his  mother  died 
when  he  was  so  young.  He's  never  known  anything 
about  the  other  sex  at  all.  Why,  Tony,  I  don't  be- 
lieve he's  spoken  to  a  girl  in  two  years.  Think  of 
it !  He'll  dry  into  dust  at  that  law  office  of  his  with 
his  investigations  and  one  thing  and  another.  Lord 
save  us !  "  he  cried  suddenly,  looking  at  a  clock  on 


8  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

the  wall.  "  I've  got  two  minutes  to  the  State  House. 
Good-bye,  Tony.  Cheer  yourself  up,  old  man. 
I'll  be  around  next  week.  .  .  .  Some  day  I'm  going 
to  take  that  Corot  out  of  the  front  hall  here,  I  like  it 
so  much." 

With  a  merry  laugh  Dr.  Gary  pressed  his  friend's 
hand,  was  down  the  stairs,  in  his  fur  coat,  out  of 
doors,  and  into  his  motor,  crying  out  a  "  good  morn- 
ing "  to  Miss  Copley,  waving  to  his  friend  in  the 
window,  and  bustling  away  to  his  milk  investigation 
at  eleven  thirty.  Rosalind  Copley  passed  him  at 
the  front  door.  In  a  moment  she  was  up  the  stairs 
and  in  her  godfather's  arms,  glowing  and  out  of 
breath. 

"  Rose !  "  he  cried,  his  dull  voice  almost  happy  and 
tender. 

"Dear  Uncle  Sing-Sing!" 

She  kissed  her  godfather  warmly  on  both  cheeks 
and  sat  him  gently  down  on  the  ottoman.  "  Uncle 
Sing-Sing "  was  the  unconventional  shortening  of 
Singleton  Singleton  which  she  had  adopted  when  a 
very  little  girl.  Like  most  such  names,  it  had  vic- 
toriously weathered  the  storm  of  years  and  maternal 
disapprobation. 

"Why  has  Dr.  Gary  been  here?  You  haven't 
been  feeling  badly?  " 

"  No,  dear."  He  always  made  an  effort  to  talk 
when  Rosalind  was  with  him.  "  Sit  down." 

She  seated  herself  beside  him  on  the  ottoman. 
Against  the  dull  flowers  of  his  silk  wrapper  the  blue 
of  her  eyes  and  suit  was  refreshingly  clear.  There 
were  roses  in  her  cheeks  and  hands,  and  the  Decem- 
ber wind  had  blown  strands  of  her  golden  hair  out 
from  under  her  hat.  Beside  the  light  grace  of  her 
youth  his  age  seemed  ponderous. 


EIGHT  LOUISBURG  SQUARE  9 

"  It  gave  me  a  start  to  see  the  doctor  coming  so 
early.  He  usually  visits  late  in  the  afternoon." 

"  On  his  way  to  State  House." 

"  Oh!     Did  he  want  anything  in  particular?  " 

Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  made  a  dry  sound  in  his 
throat,  perhaps  intended  for  a  laugh. 

"  Wanted  you  to  marry  Ben." 

"Ben?"  Rosalind  laughed  prettily,  throwing 
her  head  back  and  bringing  her  shoulders  together. 
"His  son?  He'll  never  marry  any  one.  Never 
looks  at  a  girl.  Why,  I've  asked  him  to  the  house 
often,  but  he'll  never  come.  He  scarcely  speaks  to 
me." 

Across  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton's  face  flitted  an 
air  of  relief. 

"  Why,  you  dear  old  Uncle  Sing-Sing !  "  Rosalind 
laughed  again,  looking  at  him  out  of  the  corners  of 
her  eyes.  "  Did  you  think  I  wanted  to  get  mar- 
ried ?  I  don't  love  any  one  enough  —  except 
you." 

Whereat  she  kissed  him  again,  rearranged  his 
pearl  scarf-pin,  and  declared  for  taking  off  her  hat. 

"  No,"  protested  her  godfather,  "  sleigh." 

"Soon?]' 

"  Ten  minutes." 

"  Well,  I  can't  stay  for  long;  I  have  to  be  at 
Brimmer  House  at  twelve-thirty.  You'll  never 
guess  what  I've  got  to  do  this  afternoon !  I'm  going 
to  take  ten  little  Italian  imps  through  the  Art 
Museum !  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Uncle  Sing- 
Sing?  " 

"  Large  order." 

"  I  should  say  it  was,"  replied  Rosalind. 
"  They're  the  best  of  the  class,  though,  and  I've 
taken  them  before  to  lots  and  lots  of  places.  I've 


io  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

invited  them  to  have  tea  at  home  after  the  Museum." 

Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  made  the  dry  sound  again 
in  his  throat. 

"I  know  what  that  means!  That  mother'll  be 
upset?  She  is  already.  You  should  have  heard  her 
telling  Paris  what  to  serve  for  tea ;  it  was  as  if  sev- 
eral crowned  heads  were  coming  to  29  Common- 
wealth. But  the  children  will  have  a  glorious  time. 
I'll  invite  you  to  tea,  Uncle  Sing-Sing,"  she  added 
merrily.  "  It's  at  four  o'clock." 

"  The  sleigh  is  quite  ready,  sir." 

Rosalind  smiled  a  good  morning  to  the  servant 
who  made  this  announcement.  Years  ago  Mr. 
Singleton  Singleton  had  brought  him  back  from 
Paris,  and  now  he  was  a  neat  old  fellow  with  the 
face  of  a  bishop  and  the  manners  of  a  cardinal.  For 
years  Edouard,  for  such  was  his  name,  had  been  the 
cog  on  which  8  Louisburg  Square  had  moved.  Mr. 
Singleton  Singleton  had  lost  his  taste  for  French 
novels ;  he  had  forgotten  the  French  tongue ;  his  love 
for  Paris  had  faded;  everything  connected  with  his 
stay  at  the  Beaux  Arts  was  changed  —  everything 
save  Edouard,  and  the  years  passed,  but  he  remained 
still  the  same. 

He  now  took  one  of  the  invalid's  arms  and  Rosa- 
lind the  other.  Between  them  they  steered  the  old 
man  down  the  stairway  and  into  his  great  fur  coat. 
For  the  more  perilous  transfer  down  the  icy  front 
steps  and  into  the  sleigh,  before  which  two  roans 
were  stamping  down  the  snow,  the  coachman  and 
footman  were  summoned  as  auxiliaries.  By  dint 
of  propping  the  invalid  up  here  and  pushing  him  on 
there,  they  at  length  hoisted  him  into  the  sleigh  like 
a  very  elegant  bag  of  meal.  Rosalind  jumped  in; 


EIGHT  LOUISBURG  SQUARE          n 

the  footman  sprang  up  after  the  coachman;  the 
whip  cracked;  the  bells  jingled  pleasantly;  and  away 
they  went  out  of  the  quaint,  quiet  shyness  of  Louis- 
burg  Square  into  the  noisy  brilliancy  of  the  world. 


CHAPTER  II 

EXPLAINING  GENERAL  WASHINGTON 

IT  was  one  of  those  rare  and  beautiful  afternoons 
which  sometimes  come  to  Boston  in  December. 
For  once  the  fallen  snow  had  not  changed  to 
slush,  and  lay  clean  and  sparkling  over  the  city  with- 
out a  trace  of  the  clammy  mist  which  usually  succeeds 
a  storm.  Everywhere  was  winter.  To  the  delight 
of  youth  and  to  the  disgust  of  age  great  drifts  of 
snow  clothed  and  choked  the  city.  Lo !  the  very 
heart  of  Boston  was  become  a  polar  battle-ground. 
An  army  of  lop-sided  snowmen  were  over  night 
possessed  of  the  Public  Gardens,  and  the  air  of  the 
Common  lived  with  volleys  of  snowballs.  The  sun 
was  scarcely  in  the  heavens  before  a  dozen  adventur- 
ous skirmishers  had  been  dragged  from  the  Frog- 
pond,  through  which  a  bold  leader,  like  Ethan  Allen 
of  old,  had  led  an  icy  charge  on  an  imagined  Ticon- 
deroga.  Even  Louisburg  Square  resounded  with 
the  shrill  pipings  of  the  children  of  the  district, 
myriad  little  creatures,  who  swarmed  in  the  snow- 
drifts as  if  to  the  temperature  born  or  sought  to 
blow  up  with  their  ice-bombs  the  snowy  turbans  un- 
der which  the  two  little  statues  at  either  end  of  the 
enclosure  staggered.  Chasseurs  alpins  indeed,  these 
tiny  stormers  of  Beacon  Hill !  The  houses  on  Com- 
monwealth Avenue  took  on  a  new  and  livelier  as- 
pect; while  here  and  there  even  a  house  on  Newbury 
Street,  as  the  sun  made  myriad  reflections  on  its 

12 


GENERAL  WASHINGTON  13 

snow-covered  sides,  undertook  to  sparkle  rather 
shyly,  like  an  old  spinster  pleased  with  a  new  frock. 
All  day  long  the  sun  had  dazzled  on  the  snow,  caus- 
ing old  gentlemen  to  put  on  their  blue  spectacles  and 
babies  in  their  carriages  to  hold  little  mittens  before 
their  eyes;  all  day  long  the  streets  had  jingled  with 
sleighbells,  sounding  the  merrier  in  the  clear,  crisp 
air.  Such  air  as  it  was !  Air  that  made  you  run 
down  steps  you  had  walked  before;  that  sent  the 
children  out  of  doors  with  eager  laughter  and  old 
ladies  in  white  caps  to  the  front  windows  to  see  them 
at  play;  that  mated  the  tingling  blood  with  every 
passing  bell;  that  lent  zest  to  living.  A  merry  day, 
a  bright  day,  a  clean  day,  a  day  which  passed  too 
soon  even  for  those  confirmed  in  winter-hatred. 

The  sun  had  just  sunk  below  the  building  tops, 
leaving  in  the  winter's  sky  the  afterglow  of  a  very 
bright  fire  suddenly  gone  out  on  a  very  cold  night. 
In  the  gathering  gloom  a  curious  little  troup  marched 
down  the  centre  path  of  Commonwealth  Avenue 
under  the  snow-gloved  fingers  of  the  deciduous  trees. 
There  were  twelve  little  girls  in  all,  walking  two  by 
two  and  swinging  their  clasped  hands.  Red  tam-o'- 
shanters  and  red  mittens,  clearly  gifts,  were  the  uni- 
form wear  for  the  head  and  hands,  but  their  coats 
showed  a  great  disparity  in  impoverished  taste.  A 
soiled  white  sheepskin,  a  blue  woollen,  a  red  cotton, 
a  green  Heaven-knows-what  with  pieces  of  inde- 
scribable fur  stuck  on  here  and  there,  any  and  every 
species  of  outer  garment  was  in  evidence.  In  winter 
the  poor  must  shift  as  best  they  can;  whatever  is 
warm  must  perforce  be  handsome.  Behind  this 
motley  array  walked  a  simply  but  fashionably 
dressed  young  lady,  whose  gold  hair  and  fair  com- 
plexion contrasted  with  the  Latin  colouring  of  the 


i4  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

little  girls.  It  was  pretty  to  see  the  way  in  which  she 
marshalled  their  unruly  activity  and  the  skilfullness 
which  she  employed  in  ferrying  them  across  Arling- 
ton Street,  streaming  with  automobiles  and  sleighs. 
Several  men  turned  their  heads  to  watch  her;  and  a 
few  acquaintances,  on  the  way  home  from  their  of- 
fices, bowed  or  cried  out  a  laughing  compliment. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  Public  Gardens  a  little 
clamour  arose;  for  the  hundredth  time  that  day  the 
girls  were  in  disagreement.  They  had  squabbled  in 
their  Italian  dialect  over  the  pictures  in  the  Art 
Museum;  they  had  marvelled  with  lustrous  and  long- 
ing eyes  before  the  different  cakes  at  tea;  now  the 
question  of  the  route  home  divided  them.  Let  there 
be  two  sides  to  a  question  and  your  Italian  will  argue 
and  gesticulate  till  Doomsday.  To  settle  the  con- 
troversy the  young  lady  shooed  the  girls  through  the 
iron  gate  of  the  Gardens,  much  as  one  might  a  brood 
of  chickens. 

A  few  yards  before  them  the  equestrian  statue  of 
Washington  loomed  in  the  darkness  on  its  granite 
pedestal.  In  a  country  notorious  for  ineffective 
statuary,  the  horse  and  rider,  rising  grandly  in  the 
twilight,  dominated  with  high  pride  their  surround- 
ings. The  ghostly  outline  against  the  cold,  dark  sky 
was  oddly  decorated  with  the  snow  which  lay  upon 
the  general's  hat,  his  shoulders,  saddle,  and  horse. 
As  the  group  drew  near,  the  young  lady  bowed  her 
head  respectfully. 

"  Why  you  do-a  that,  lady?  "  asked  a  little  voice. 
'What,  Maria?" 

"  Bend  your  head,  lak  sad  people?  " 
'  I  was  bowing  to  the  statue.     My  father  taught 
me  that  when  I  was  a  little  girl  and  ever  since  I've 
done  it  almost  without  thinking." 


GENERAL  WASHINGTON  15 

Keenly  interested  in  everything,  the  little  group 
had  stopped  to  gape  up  at  the  huge  underside  of  the 
horse. 

"What  ees?"  piped  up  a  girl  who  had  been  in 
America  scarcely  more  than  a  year. 

"  It's  a  statue  of  —  why  don't  you  know?  Don't 
any  of  you  know?  Bici?  Maria?  Helena? 
Look  at  it !  " 

"  Garibaldi !  "  decisively  answered  the  little  Sici- 
lian who  had  spoken  before. 

The  others  hung  back. 

"  Oh,  come !     You  must  know.     Look  again !  " 

"  Thea  da  Roosevelt,"  ventured  Maria  doubt- 
fully. 

"  Oh,  no,  girls,  no !  "  cried  the  young  lady,  putting 
her  hands  to  her  ears.  "  Who  was  the  Father  of 
his  Country?  Who  was  the  first  President  of  the 
United  States?" 

"  Abram  Lincoll!"  chorused  half  of  the  group. 

"  No !  Non  so !  "  cried  Helena,  the  oldest  of  the 
girls.  "  I  knowa  now.  It  was  Georga  Washaton. 
I  knowa.  He  greata,  biga  man.  Live  long  ago  and 
fighta  Spain." 

"  You've  got  his  name  right,  Helena,  at  least.  It 
is  George  Washington,  children.  That's  a  name 
you  all  ought  to  love  and  respect.  Can  you  all  say 
it?  George  Washington." 

The  girls  tried  it,  the  syllables  sounding  strange 
on  Latin  tongues;  but  the  little  Sicilian,  even  after 
she  had  mastered  the  name,  still  had  a  feeling  that 
this  might  only  be  the  American  way  of  saying  Gari- 
baldi, a  suspicion  which  the  ensuing  explanation 
greatly  strengthened.  The  young  lady  was  de- 
cidedly at  a  loss  how  to  give  the  salient  facts  about 
Washington  to  these  little  foreigners;  to  crowd  into 


1 6  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

a  few  minutes  the  story  of  the  cherry  tree,  the  Revo- 
lution, the  Presidency,  and  the  "  first  in  peace  "  was 
after  all  no  small  task.  Little  wonder  that  she 
floundered  and  spoke  like  a  primer,  inwardly  grate- 
ful that  only  her  little  girls  were  listening  to  her 
efforts.  She  did  not  tell  it  well,  she  knew,  but  still 
she  thought  it  strange  that  the  children  were  not 
more  interested,  strange  that  they  stared  so  avidly 
at  something  directly  behind  her.  Words  which 
they  usually  caught  up  like  pearls  from  her  lips  now 
seemed  to  fall  unnoticed.  It  made  the  young  lady  a 
little  angry. 

" —  and  you  must  never  forget  this  man.  He  was 
the  truest,  finest  American  we  have  ever " 

She  could  bear  that  concerted  stare  no  longer. 
As  she  turned  quickly  about,  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise escaped  her ;  some  ten  feet  off  stood  a  tall  young 
man  with  a  green  bag  in  his  hand,  evidently  listen- 
ing to  her  historical  platitudes  with  the  deepest  and 
most  interested  attention. 

"Mr.  Gary!" 

"  O  —  I  —  er  — .     Good  evening,  Miss  Copley." 

Rosalind  felt  her  face  flood  with  red  and  was 
grateful  for  the  night.  In  the  ensuing  silence  the 
man  moved  his  feet  nervously  in  the  snow. 

"  I  suppose  —  I  suppose  it  was  very  rude  of  me 

to  —  er  —  listen,  but  I .  I  don't  know  how  I 

came  to  — " 

"  Oh !  "  remarked  Rosalind,  coldly. 

"  I  hope  you'll  —  you'll  let  me  apologise." 

He  came  a  step  nearer.  Holding  their  breath, 
the  little  girls  huddled  close  together,  each  one  feel- 
ing that  at  last  she  was  seeing  how  life  was  lived  in 
the  Upper  Ten.  All  the  inherent  romanticism  of 
the  Latin  race  rounded  their  young  eyes.  Perhaps 


GENERAL  WASHINGTON  17 

had  Rosalind  and  Mr.  Gary  known  that  their  be- 
haviour was  moulding  the  future  conduct  of  their 
spectators  they  might  have  performed  more  grace- 
fully. As  it  was,  the  conversation  was  largely  made 
up  of  a  most  uncomfortable  silence. 

"  Certainly  I  shall  let  you  apologise,"  said  Rosa- 
lind with  decision.  She  paused  significantly.  "  But 
I  think  I  ought  to  punish  you." 

"I  —  I  suppose  you  ought." 

Gary  administered  an  inward  chastisement  to  him- 
self; here  was  a  pretty  mess!  How  stupidly  care- 
less of  him  to  have  listened !  While  he  wondered 
how  he  might  withdraw  with  the  least  rudeness, 
Rosalind  turned  over  in  her  mind  a  fitting  method  of 
reprisal.  She  was  very  angry  that  any  one  should 
have  overheard  her  kindergarten  lecture  on  Wash- 
ington. To  be  caught  would  have  piqued  a  saint. 

"  I  know  what  you  shall  do.  You  shall  help  me 
take  the  girls  back  to  Brimmer  House !  "  She  al- 
most laughed;  surely  this  was  the  ideal  penance  for 
a  misogynist ! 

"Brimmer  House!  "  Gary  repeated  feebly,  chill- 
ing at  the  thought.  He  was  six  feet  of  bashfulness, 
and  groaned  inwardly. 

"  Yes !  And  I  think  if  I  took  your  arm,  it  would 
be  safer  —  it's  so  dark  and  slippery!  " 

Having  thus  destroyed  the  possibility  of  escape, 
she  accepted  his  unwilling  arm  and  bade  the  children 
move  on  ahead  —  which  they  obediently  did,  though 
with  faces  turned  toward  herself  and  Gary.  Never 
did  Orpheus  cast  a  more  interested  glance  rearward 
to  Eurydice  than  the  relentless  gaze  of  these  twelve 
little  girls.  They  advanced  like  toy  children  whose 
moveable  heads  have  stuck  permanently  in  the  wrong 
direction  —  a  posture  none  too  favourable  to  prog- 


18  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

ress  and  very  inconvenient  for  on-coming  pedestrians. 

"  I  was  surprised;  that  was  it,"  Gary  was  saying. 
"  You  see  I  didn't  know  that  your  type  of  girl  did 
anything  like  this." 

"Oh!     What  did  you  think?" 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  falling  in  the 
trap  which  she  had  laid  for  him.  "  I  don't  know  as 
I  ever  did  think  very  much  about  it.  I  guess  I 
thought  you  —  er  —  dressed  and  danced  and  —  er 
—  went  to  the  theatre." 

'  Your  opinion  was  not  very  high." 

"  No.  That's  why  it  was  such  a  surprise  to  see 
you  standing  there,  preaching  away  like  —  er  — 
like  anything  about  Washington." 

"  Did  you  hear  much  of  it?  " 

"  Every  word,"  he  replied  innocently.  "  I 
wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  anything.  Why,  it's 
changed  my  views  immensely." 

So  he  had  heard  every  word  of  it!  And  it  had 
changed  his  views  immensely!  As  Rosalind's  face 
burned  with  pique,  she  covenanted  with  herself  for 
revenge  upon  this  young  scorner  of  women.  But  she 
spoke  as  if  honey  were  on  her  tongue  and  banter  on 
her  lips. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  about  me  as  if  I  were 
being  experimented  on!  It  makes  me  feel  cold  all 
over.  When  you  say  in  that  scientific  way  that  your 
views  have  changed,  I  feel  as  if  you  had  just  taken 
me  out  of  a  test  tube  for  examination." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Gary  humbly.  He  wondered 
miserably  how  a  man  dealt  with  woman's  words,  and 
fell  silent. 

When  they  arrived  at  Charles  Street,  he  saw  her 
for  the  first  time  clearly  under  an  electric  light. 
Momentarily  her  face,  framed  by  her  blue  fox  furs, 


GENERAL  WASHINGTON  19 

stood  out  in  relief.  His  glance  was  one  of  hasty 
curiosity,  but  Rosalind,  who  knew  what  would  fol- 
low, stared  straight  ahead  and  pretended  oblivious- 
ness.  Gary  felt  a  little  thrill  of  excitement.  He 
looked  at  her  again  under  the  next  light,  but  no 
longer  curiously  or  scientifically,  no  longer  inter- 
ested in  views ;  now  he  looked  at  her  because  he  felt 
impelled  to.  As  each  light  was  passed  he  began  to 
anticipate  the  next,  hoping  that  it  would  be  brighter 
and  clearer  than  the  last.  Having  never  thought  of 
a  girl  or  looked  at  one  without  necessity,  he  found  an 
odd,  mischievous  pleasure  in  stealing  these  unnatural 
glances.  There  was  more  than  novelty  in  it;  he  was 
experiencing  the  delight  of  an  unreluctant  Adam  first 
tasting  forbidden  fruit.  Light  succeeded  light,  and 
still  Rosalind  permitted  him  to  cast  these  sidelong 
glances.  Not  until  they  swung  into  Brimmer  Street 
did  she  turn  towards  him;  then  their  eyes  met,  and 
Gary,  fairly  caught,  was  not  a  little  moved.  Strange 
that  such  a  thing  should  stir  him,  he  thought,  as  he 
dropped  his  glance.  He  did  not  dare  look  again; 
something  told  him  that  her  eyes  were  still  bent  upon 
him  and  that  she  knew  that  he  had  been  staring  at 
her. 

Of  his  strange  uneasiness  Rosalind  was  fully 
aware.  When  at  length  they  turned  up  the  dull 
steps  of  Brimmer  House,  she  felt  certain  that  she  had 
changed  his  views  much  more  than  he  suspected. 


CHAPTER  III 

WHAT   WAS   SAID   AT  TEA 

ELL,  my  dear  Tony,  I  only  wish  you 
and  Jack  had  been  here  to  see  how  well- 
behaved  and  polite  they  were !  It  was  a 
revelation  to  me.  You  would  have  laughed  at  the 
naive  way  in  which  they  mimicked  everything  Rose 
did.  She  is  their  idol.  When  they  saw  her  take 
lemon  with  her  tea,  they  all  bravely  followed  suit, 
although  one  little  girl  had  been  making  eyes  at  the 
cream  from  the  moment  Paris  brought  it  in." 

Mrs.  Copley  was  speaking.  She  sat  behind  an 
inlaid  walnut  table,  on  which  gleamed  a  silver  tea  set 
dating  from  Colonial  days.  Though  the  room  was 
lighted  but  dimly,  the  silver  shone  in  the  blaze  of  a 
wood  fire,  which  flamed  opposite  her  in  a  cheerful 
accompaniment  to  the  softly  singing  kettle.  On  the 
dim  mantelpiece  of  veined  marble  an  old-fashioned 
clock  ticked  off  ponderous  seconds.  The  fire  be- 
neath it  dominated  the  large  room,  dancing  on  the 
French  walnut  panels  of  the  walls  and  finding  an 
occasional  reflection  on  the  rich  backs  of  the  books 
which  filled  the  shelves  extending  from  the  floor  to 
the  elaborate  ceiling.  Above  the  fire-place  hung  a 
self-portrait  of  John  Singleton  Copley;  the  red, 
placid  face  benevolently  smiled  about  his  shadowy 
and  refined  surroundings,  as  if  pleased  to  observe 
that  his  descendants  were  free  from  the  pecuniary 
difficulties  which  sometimes  had  beset  him.  Below 

20 


WHAT  WAS  SAID  AT  TEA  21 

the  great,  gold-framed  portrait,  close  to  the  welcome 
warmth  of  the  fire,  the  smiling  and  red-faced  John 
Singleton  Copley  of  the  present  day  sank  back  into 
a  most  comfortable  arm-chair  of  red  brocade  and 
warmed  his  knees. 

Although  not  immediately  visible,  Mr.  Singleton 
Singleton  was  also  present.  Safe  from  observation 
and  intrusion,  he  sat  in  the  embrasure  formed  by  the 
front  window  which  rounded  out  towards  Common- 
wealth Avenue.  It  was  his  favourite  spot  in  the 
house.  Knowing  well  the  strategic  value  of  the 
place,  he  had  for  years  ambushed  himself  behind  the 
book-covered  table  and  the  great  brocade  curtains, 
hidden  from  the  eye  of  undesirable  callers.  Mrs. 
Copley  had  known  him  to  stay  there  for  hours,  see- 
ing but  unseen.  Whether  he  listened  no  one  could 
tell;  at  least  he  never  spoke,  and  his  taciturnity  fa- 
voured his  place  of  retirement.  A  chosen  few  were 
admitted  to  his  secret;  but  to  society  in  general  he 
was  unknown  as  a  visitor  at  his  cousin's  house. 

"  As  for  Paris,"  Mrs.  Copley  went  on,  "  they 
found  him  quite  inexplicable.  Some  of  them  sus- 
pected him  of  being  Rose's  father.  To  have  a  man 
in  a  dress  suit  wait  on  them  seemed  beyond  belief; 
evidently  they  considered  such  a  costume  fit  only  for 
the  ultra  rich." 

"  How  did  Paris  like  'em?  "  asked  her  husband. 

"  I  heard  him  tell  Albert  that  they  were  distress- 
ingly poor,  but  *  as  'ow  they  be'aved  themselves  very 
decorous.'  ' 

Mrs.  Copley's  rich,  warm  laugh  was  entirely  har- 
monic with  her  surroundings  and  with  herself.  She 
was  renowned  in  Boston  for  a  beauty  which  as  the 
years  went  by  seemed  rather  to  increase  than  to  fade. 
Her  hair  had  turned  white  before  thirty,  and  most 


22  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

fortunately  for  her,  since  it  accentuated  the  un- 
troubled loveliness  which  rested  in  her  eyes  and 
moulded  her  lips.  Dressed  in  something  black  from 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix  and  with  the  Copley  pearls  about 
her  neck,  she  was  an  object  which  no  one  in  Boston, 
from  the  most  eager  debutante  to  the  most  lovely 
Victorian  remnant,  could  equal.  Mrs.  Copley  knew 
this  —  not  vaingloriously,  not  spitefully,  but  as  one 
knows  any  incontrovertible  fact  —  and  lived  accord- 
ingly. Her  clothes  were  the  most  elegant  in  Boston; 
her  jewels  the  most  perfect;  her  coiffures  the  most 
painstaking.  After  all,  why  not?  Knowing  her 
talent  to  be  beauty,  she  determined  to  put  it  to  good 
advantage,  and  did  so  with  success  unquestionable. 
As  the  firelight  made  shadows  in  her  soft  white  hair 
and  danced  in  each  trembling  pearl  about  her  neck, 
she  seemed  to  be  the  quintessence  of  the  room's  aris- 
tocratic beauty. 

There  sounded  a  hearty  ring  at  the  front-door 
bell;  footsteps  echoed  on  the  marble-flagged  hall  out- 
side; and  a  little  man  with  shining  eyes  and  white 
hair  like  Mrs.  Copley's  popped  into  the  room. 

"  Hullo,  Jack !  Beth,  my  dear  I ']  Smack !  The 
little  man's  eyes  twinkled  as  he  kissed  her  on  the 
cheek.  "  Lovely  as  ever !  Tony,  how  are  you  ?  " 
This  to  the  invisible  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton,  whose 
face,  like  that  of  an  austere  and  invalid  Cheshire  Cat, 
appeared  at  his  name  above  a  pile  of  books,  and  as 
soon  faded  again  behind  the  curtains. 

"  Maybe  this  fire  isn't  good !  There's  too  much 
ice  on  the  front  steps;  I  almost  killed  myself. 
Thank  you!  Two  lumps.  Thoughtful  sister! 
Lovely  creature !  " 

The  little  man  settled  in  a  chair,  slapped  his  leg, 
took  his  tea,  cocked  his  head  on  one  side  like  an  in- 


WHAT  WAS  SAID  AT  TEA  23 

quisitive  bird,  and  laughed  an  internal  laugh,  with 
all  the  expressions  of  extreme  merriment  on  his  face 
and  none  of  its  boisterousness  on  his  lips. 

"  Guess  where  I've  been !     You  never  can !  " 

"  Keith's !  "  ventured  his  sister,  who  knew  his 
habits. 

"  The  Sarcophagus  Club."  This  from  Mr.  Cop- 
ley who  knew  his  habits  better. 

"All  wrong!  All  wrong!  I've  been  to  Mrs. 
Thayer's  to  hear  Pierre  Holland,  the  French  editor, 
speak.  And  in  French,  too." 

"Oh!  I  hoped  you  could  tell  us  about  it!" 
Mrs.  Copley  made  up  a  face  at  him.  She  was  very 
fond  of  her  brother  —  he  formed  an  excellent  sub- 
ject for  her  innocent  witticisms. 

"I  can!  Tremendously  interesting.  All  about 
sex !  You  should  have  gone ;  every  one  should  have 
gone;  done  'em  all  good.  I'm  a  changed  man. 
Swear  I  am.  Very  brilliant  chap,  Holland;  brother 
of  the  great  tenor,  Lucien.  Listen  to  what  hap- 
pened !  Had  a  front  row  seat  on  the  left-hand  side 
and  if  Jane  and  Joan  Hepplethwaite  didn't  see  me 
there  and  come  and  sit  down  beside  me  before  every 
one  —  on  purpose  !  They  follow  me  everywhere. 
I  shall  take  out  my  razor  and  end  it  all  some  day. 
Really!  Driven  to  drink  and  all  that,  you  know. 
One  is  bad  enough,  but  now  they're  both  pursuing 
me.  I  don't  boast,  Jack !  It's  awful  to  be  attacked 
from  the  rear ;  a  debutante  I  can  withstand,  but  those 
two  old —  I  don't  want  to  marry;  I  won't  marry! 
I'm  fifty  years  old,  and  I  believe  in  marrying  for  love. 
Love  at  fifty  —  where  is  it?  " 

Having  thus  lashed  himself  into  a  fury,  the  little 
man  drank  his  tea  off  at  a  single  draught,  set  the  cup 
down  with  a  rattle,  and  stared  darkly  into  the  fire. 


24  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

'  Well,  Jo-Jo,  you  shouldn't  be  so  attractive ! 
You  shouldn't  lay  yourself  out  to  captivate,"  re- 
proved his  sister. 

Her  brother  was  up  in  a  second.  "Captivate! 
Bah !  I  set  myself  out  to  captivate !  Why,  I  tell 
you,  Beth,  they  pursue  me !  If  I  didn't  live  at  the 
Sarcophagus  Club,  I  believe  they'd  bring  flowers  to 
my  room  and  call  on  me." 

The  front  door  bell  rang  again. 

"I'll  wager  that's  them;  I'll  wager  anything. 
They  hunt  me,  Beth,  really!  You're  a  woman  and 
you  know  what  I  mean.  What  you  used  to  do  to 
Jack  —  refined  head-hunting,  but  essentially  canni- 
balistic." 

"  The  Misses  Hepplethwaite." 

Amid  a  subdued  chorus  of  greetings  two  ladies 
swept  into  the  room.  They  were  tall,  thin,  aristo- 
cratic old  maids,  Joan  rather  attractive  still,  but 
Jane,  the  elder,  refined  to  such  a  degree  that,  like  a 
pencil  which  has  been  sharpened  too  much,  she 
seemed  all  point  and  no  body. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Copley,  as  she  made 
tea  for  the  new  arrivals,  "  that  you  heard  Monsieur 
Holland  speak  at  Mrs.  Thayer's.  My  brother  was 
so  pleased  to  have  found  some  one  he  knew." 

"  I  am  glad,"  replied  Miss  Jane  Hepplethwaite. 
"  He  occupied  by  chance  the  chair  next  to  us.  The 
lecture  was  infinitely  absorbing;  we  found  it  so,  did 
we  not,  Joseph?  " 

For  a  moment  she  languished  in  expectation;  then 
Mr.  Quincy  answered  sulkily,  "  Every  word  he  said 
was  true." 

*  Very  true,"  echoed  the  younger  sister. 

'  What  was  it  all  about?  "  asked  Mr.  Copley. 

"  I'll  tell  you,  Jack.     It  was  called  '  The  Third 


WHAT  WAS  SAID  AT  TEA  25 

Sex  ' —  all  about  our  modern  women.  Here  is  the 
idea.  One  sex,  male.  Second  sex,  female.  Third 
sex,  female  that  won't  marry.  You  know  the  kind, 
Beth!  Think  they're  superior  to  men,  and  won't 
touch  'em  with  a  pole.  They  are  sure  men  are 
vicious  creatures,  given  over  to  sin  and  all  that  kind 
of  thing." 

"Well,  don't  you  think  they  are  partly  right?" 
asked  Miss  Jane  Hepplethwaite. 

Mr.  Quincy  bubbled  with  excitement. 

"  No,  my  dear  Jane,  I  think  man  is  good;  I  think 
woman  is  good;  I  think  we  are  all  good.  But  as 
for  the  woman  who  will  not  marry,  I  scorn  her;  I 
cast  myself  in  her  teeth!  What  good  is  she? 
What  does  she  do?  She  encumbers  the  earth. 
What  is  woman's  business  on  earth  ?  It  is  to  — " 

Mrs.  Copley  thought  it  time  to  take  the  conver- 
sation away  from  her  fiery  brother. 

"  My  dear  Jo-Jo,  supposing  the  girl  cannot  find 
the  right  man?  " 

"  Oh,  there  must  be  plenty  of  men  in  the  world!  " 

"Ah,  but  what  if  they  are  not  willing?"  asked 
Miss  Joan  Hepplethwaite  with  a  pointed  glance  to- 
wards Mr.  Quincy,  who  in  sudden  confusion  fell  to 
poking  the  fire. 

"  And,"  went  on  her  sister,  following  up  the  ad- 
vantage, "  perhaps  Monsieur  Holland  might  have 
named  a  fourth  sex:  there  are  men  who  will  not 
marry.  Surely  women  may  have  their  opinion  of 
them!" 

In  the  midst  of  his  unnecessary  reassembling  of 
the  logs,  Mr.  Quincy  almost  fell  into  the  flames 
himself. 

"  I  think  you're  quite  right,  Miss  Hepplethwaite," 
Mrs.  Copley  laughed  with  a  quizzical  glance  at  her 


26  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

brother,  "  for  the  men  have  the  proposing  power. 
A  man  may  dog  any  girl's  footsteps  and  make  her 
love  him.  But  with  a  girl  it's  different;  she  can't 
pursue  a  man." 

"  Of  course  not!  "  simpered  Miss  Joan. 

Mr.  Quincy  snorted. 

"  Man  proposes,  girl  disposes." 

Having  discharged  her  last  bonmot  on  this  topic, 
Mrs.  Copley  changed  the  subject  in  full  realisation 
that  the  double  entendre  was  in  imminent  danger  of 
falling  through. 

"  Speaking  of  Monsieur  Holland,  is  it  true  that 
his  brother,  Lucien,  is  going  to  sing  in  the  Opera 
this  year?  He  must  be  at  least  fifty-five!  Have 
you  heard?  " 

"  The  incomparable  Lucien !  Would  he  were  I 
We  heard  him  sing  once  in  Paris,"  replied  Miss 
Jane  Hepplethwaite. 

"  Glorious!  "  echoed  Miss  Joan. 

"  We  met  him  after  a  performance  and  also  his 
wife,  a  charming  creature.  A  vicomtesse  in  her  own 
name,  I  believe." 

"  I  know  her  well,"  broke  in  Mr.  Quincy. 
"  Knew  her  before  her  marriage.  Lovely  crea- 
ture !  Divine !  Such  eyes  and  such  a  figure ! 
Marie  de  Nemours  was  her  name.  Tony  —  Mr. 
Singleton,  you  know  —  and  I  were  at  the  Beaux 
Arts.  Jack's  family  didn't  want  him  to  go;  they 
were  afraid  he'd  fall  in  love!  So  he  stayed  be- 
hind and  Beth  torpedoed  him.  Lucky  devil!  " 

'  You  should  have  stayed,  too,  Mr.  Quincy,"  said 
Miss  Hepplethwaite  with  an  assumption  of  coy- 
ness. 

"  Perhaps,"  proceeded  Mr.  Quincy  hastily,  "  but 


WHAT  WAS  SAID  AT  TEA  27 

I  didn't.  Poor  Jo-Jo !  Wooed  the  Muses  in  Paris 
and  found  them  cold.  Returning  to  Boston,  dis- 
covered that  no  one  wanted  him  except  the  bridge- 
players  at  the  Sarcophagus  Club.  Tony  has  a  god- 
daughter to  comfort  him;  I  only  have  a  lot  of  un- 
paid bills,  and  they  can't  be  called  exactly  sooth- 
ing!" 

"  That  reminds  me,"  said  Miss  Hepplethwaite, 
rustling  in  her  chair  a  little  closer  to  Mrs.  Copley. 
"  My  sister  and  I  saw  your  daughter  going  into 
Brimmer  House  as  we  were  on  our  way  here.  She 
is  very  much  interested  there,  is  she  not?  " 

"  Dear  me,  yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Copley.  "  I  had 
a  dozen  little  Brimmer  Housers  here  for  tea  to- 
day." 

Raising  her  refined  eyebrows  a  trifle,  Miss  Hep- 
plethwaite glanced  about  the  room  as  if  expecting 
to  find  traces  of  the  little  girls. 

"  How  curious !  My  sister  Joan  once  was  inter- 
ested in  Brimmer  House,  it  being  the  most  con- 
venient charity  for  her.  One  has  only  to  go  down 
the  hill  from  Louisburg  Square  and  there  it  is.  But 
the  infections  one  is  exposed  to  were  so  multifarious 
that  I  thought  it  best  for  her  to  relinquish  the  work. 
A  month  later  she  had  chicken-pox,  and  I've  never 
felt  quite  assured  that  the  germ  did  not  emanate 
from  some  of  those  Italian  children.  They  arc 
most  unhealthy  creatures;  they  all  inherit  disease,  I 
believe.  I  dare  say  it's  in  their  blood.  Could  you 
dare  to  permit  them  in  your  house?  " 

Mr.  Quincy,  who  had  been  poking  the  fire,  gave 
the  back  log  such  a  blow  that  it  sent  forth  a  shower 
of  sparks. 

"  Oh,  I  trust  Rosalind,"  answered  Mrs.  Copley. 


28  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  She'll  come  to  no  harm.  She  knows  more  about 
infections  and  such  things  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
family  put  together." 

"  Certainly  does,"  spoke  up  Mr.  Quincy  decid- 
edly. "  Only  modern  girl  I've  ever  seen  with  a 
grain  of  sense.  Brought  up  right.  I'm  proud  of 
my  sister.  Excellent  mother.  Remember  dough's 
line:  'She  that  is  handy  is  handsome!'  Rose 
took  a  cinder  out  of  my  eye  in  no  time  last  Tues- 
day. Dr.  Lloyd  couldn't  have  done  it  half  as  well." 

"  We  saw  her  walking  to-night  with  Benjamin 
Gary." 

"What!     The  doctor's  son?" 

Miss  Hepplethwaite  replied  affirmatively.  Had 
her  eyes  been  turned  in  the  right  direction,  she  might 
have  descried  a  ghostly  movement  in  the  brocade 
curtain  by  the  front  window. 

"  I  can't  believe  it!  "  cried  Mrs.  Copley.  "  Why, 
he  never  speaks  to  girls.  Are  you  sure?  Jack, 
isn't  that  just  like  Rose?  It's  a  wonder  she  doesn't 
have  Edward  Everett  Hale  off  his  pedestal  in  the 
park!" 

"  Dr.  Cary  will  be  so  pleased,"  continued  Miss 
Hepplethwaite.  "  He  said  to  me  weeks  ago  that 
his  son  was  worse  than  a  misogynist  —  that  he  was 
a  gynophobe." 

"  That's  exactly  what  he  told  Mr.  Singleton  this 
morning,"  said  Mrs.  Copley,  "  and  he  repeated  it 
to  Rose.  Perhaps  she's  undertaken  to  cure  him  in 
the  role  of  an  angel  of  philogyny.  She'll  do  it  if 
any  one  can." 

The  door  bell  rang  distinctly  again.  Mrs.  Cop- 
ley glanced  at  her  blue  enamelled  watch,  a  trifle  of 
surpassing  beauty  suspended  by  a  pearl  chain  about 
her  neck. 


WHAT  WAS  SAID  AT  TEA  29 

"  Since  it's  after  six,  that  must  be  Rose  herself. 
She  can  tell  us  the  whole  story." 

It  was  indeed  Rosalind,  but  not  alone,  for  she 
had  brought  the  unwilling  Gary  with  her.  A  bright- 
ness pervaded  the  room  at  their  entrance;  it  was  as 
if  they  had  caught  up  the  last  daylight  and  now  in  the 
darkness  gave  it  off. 

Gary  was  introduced.  Massive  and  masculine,  he 
bent  over  the  ladies'  hands  in  turn;  then  took  a 
place  by  the  fire,  concealing  the  old-fashioned  clock, 
which  ticked  on  resentfully  behind  his  back,  and 
even  obscuring  with  his  head  the  silver-buckled  shoes 
of  the  John  Singleton  Copley  in  the  portrait. 

"  Do  get  warm,"  urged  Rosalind.  "  Is  there  any 
tea  left,  Mamma,  or  shall  I  ring?  I've  been  per- 
fectly brutal  to  Mr.  Gary.  I  walked  him  all  over 
Brimmer  House  —  even  up  on  the  roof  play- 
ground." 

"  But  —  but  I  wanted  to  see  it;  it  was  most  in- 
teresting." 

"  Where  did  Rosalind  discover  you  to  take  you 
on  this  tour  of  inspection?"  asked  Mrs.  Copley. 
"  I  was  sacrificed  in  midsummer  and  almost  pros- 
trated." 

"  In  the  Common,"  answered  Rosalind  severely. 
"  Mr.  Gary  showed  such  interest  in  my  appearance 
with  the  little  girls  that  he  couldn't  —  two  lumps, 
Mr.  Gary?" 

Gary  was  unintelligible;  he  had  been  afraid  Rosa- 
lind would  betray  him  before  all  these  people, 
and  blushed  as  he  had  not  since  dancing  school 
days. 

"  The  Common  acts  as  a  kind  of  melting  pot  in 
our  family,"  laughed  Mr.  Copley.  "  Once  Rose 
met  there  a  reporter  on  the  American,  whose  camera 


30  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

her  Uncle  Joseph  had  the  good  aim  to  knock  into 
the  Frogpond." 

"Did  he  actually  try  to  photograph  you?" 
gasped  the  elder  Miss  Hepplethwaite. 

"  He  did,  indeed,"  replied  Rosalind,  lifting  her 
tea-cup  to  her  lips. 

"  How  dreadful !" 

"  Awful !  "  echoed  the  younger  sister. 

"  But  Uncle  Jo-Jo's  aim  was  superb !  His  vol- 
ume of  Zola  went  over  the  fence,  too.  A  little  boy 
fished  it  out  of  the  water  later  and  I've  got  it  up- 
stairs as  a  trophy  of  the  chase." 

"  How  magnificently  your  uncle  behaved." 

"  He  didn't  hesitate  a  moment,"  said  Rosalind 
gaily.  "  And  he  wanted  to  punch  the  reporter's 
nose  afterwards.  I  had  to  catch  him !  " 

"  You  must  be  proud  to  be  so  well  looked  after," 
simpered  the  younger  Miss  Hepplethwaite. 

Mr.  Quincy  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "  Well, 
well,  any  one  would  have  done  the  same  thing! 
Jack  would.  Gary  would.  Any  man  would. 
These  reporters  don't  care  what  they  do  nowadays. 
Take  Rose's  picture,  indeed!  " 

Mr.  Quincy  patted  his  niece's  hand  affectionally. 

"  Well,  I  must  say,"  remarked  the  elder  Miss 
Hepplethwaite,  "  that  I  shall  never  dare  walk  in  the 
Common  again.  The  idea !  Think  of  appearing 
like  that  in  a  public  journal!  " 

A  smile  curled  the  corners  of  Mr.  Copley's 
mouth. 

'  You'd  better  never  go  out  without  an  escort, 
Jane.  Take  Jo-Jo  with  you:  he's  always  within 
nailing  distance  at  the  Club.  I  am  sure  he'd 
be  delighted." 

As  Mr.  Quincy  secretly  brandished  the  poker  at 


WHAT  WAS  SAID  AT  TEA  31 

his  brother-in-law,  the  Misses  Hepplethwaite  mur- 
mured something  about  not  troubling  him  and  rose 
together.  They  always  rose  together,  did  every- 
thing, in  fact,  in  unison,  like  twin  atoms  composing 
one  Hepplethwaite  molecule.  Joan,  to  be  sure,  was 
rather  the  chorus  to  Jane ;  she  never  initiated  things 
without  a  reference  to  her  older  sister,  being  the 
younger  by  almost  four  years.  But  Jane  was  a 
born  leader,  while  Joan  by  nature  was  a  clinging 
vine. 

"  Oh,  must  you  go?  " 

"  Yes,  we've  not  got  our  sleigh  and  it's  rather 
late." 

"  Don't  walk  through  the  Common !  "  laughed 
Mr.  Copley  mischievously.  "  They  might  try  a 
flashlight.  Jo- Jo,  isn't  your  motor  outside?  " 

Mr.  Quincy's  white  moustache  bristled  with  in- 
dignation as  he  assented. 

"  Oh,  but  we  couldn't  think  — " 

"  Pleasure,  Miss  Hepplethwaite,  I  assure  you." 
Mr.  Quincy  spoke  shortly.  "  Stop  at  the  Club  for 
me  and  send  you  on  perfectly  well.  Good-night, 
Rose,  my  love.  Good-night,  Cary." 

Angrily  ignoring  the  amused  glances  of  his  sister 
and  her  husband,  he  popped  out  of  the  room  in  the 
Hepplethwaite's  train  and  slammed  the  front  door 
after  him. 

Cary  glanced  at  his  watch,  doubtful  whether  his 
penance  was  over.     Without  being  aware  of  it,  he 
i  was  beginning  to  enjoy  himself  in  an  odd  kind  of  way. 
lit  pleased  him  to  see  Rosalind  seated  on  the  arm  of 
jher  father's  chair  and  Mrs.  Copley  at  her  embroid- 
ery on  the  other  side  of  the  fire.     He  hoped  that  he 
was  not  intrusive. 

"  Now  that  the  lovers  have  departed,"  said  Mrs. 


32  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

Copley,  "  tell  us  what  you  thought  of  Brimmer 
House." 

"  Why,  that  it  was  an  excellent  charity.  Your 
daughter  has  made  me  most  enthusiastic.  I  used 
to  suspect  these  things  of  being  largely  shams." 

"  Shams?  "      Mrs.  Copley  looked  puzzled. 

"  So  many  women  take  up  charity  just  because 
they  can't  afford  bridge  and  aren't  strong  enough 
for  golf.  Of  course,  there  is  nothing  as  fine  in  this 
world  as  real  charity,  but  in  my  work  I  come  across 
so  many  useless  uplifters  that  the  sight  of  your 
daughter  to-day  with  those  little  girls  was  most  won- 
derful. I'm  sure  they  all  love  her  at  the  House; 
they  ran  to  meet  her." 

"  You  shouldn't  say  that  before  me,"  remarked 
Rosalind,  colouring  with  pleasure. 

Cary  was  silent;  he  had  just  noticed  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  the  matchless  glint  of  firelight  on  gold 
hair. 

"They  all  spoil  you,  don't  they!"  cried  her  fa- 
ther playfully. 

Mr.  Copley's  mild  jocosity  was  infectious.  Cary 
began  to  find  himself  actually  drawn  out  into  con- 
versation, and  it  pleased  him.  In  the  middle  of  the 
explanation  of  a  technical  point  in  regard  to  his 
last  law  case  —  he  often  wondered  afterwards  how 
the  subject  had  come  up!  —  he  heard  a  clock  strike 
and  guiltily  apologised  for  having  remained  so  long. 

;<  I  do  not  make  many  calls,  Mrs.  Copley." 

"  You  should,"  she  complimented  him  prettily. 
"  Good  night." 

"  Give  my  regards  to  your  old  man,"  said  Mr. 
Copley  with  a  genial  hand-shake. 

Cary  bowed.  Turning  to  Rosalind,  he  spoke  in  a 
low  voice  meant  for  her  ear  alone. 


WHAT  WAS  SAID  AT  TEA  33 

"  Your  punishment,  Miss  Copley,  was  —  er  — " 

"Yes?" 

"Most  —  most  agreeable." 

Rosalind  cast  a  deep,  swift  glance  into  his  eyes; 
there  are  some  feminine  instincts  too  strong  to  be 
overcome. 

"  It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive,  you 
know.  Good  night." 

He  shook  her  hand  and  left  the  room  in  a  sudden 
flush  of  excitement.  Going  down  the  front  steps  he 
was  so  busied  with  estimating  judicially  what  Rosa- 
lind had  meant  by  it  all,  but  particularly  by  her  last 
remark,  that  he  slipped  on  the  ice  and  narrowly 
averted  a  fall.  This  shook  him  from  his  dreams. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  it  was  only  common  politeness," 
he  mumbled  to  himself.  "  She  probably  says  that  to 
every  one.  Yet — " 

He  went  home  to  dinner  so  deeply  thoughtful  that 
his  father  assured  him  if  he  did  not  stop  worrying 
over  his  work,  his  digestion  would  certainly  be  im- 
paired. 

No  sooner  had  he  quitted  the  room  than  Rosa- 
lind hurried  to  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton's  retreat. 

"  Come  over  to  the  fire,  Uncle  Sing-Sing." 

The  invalid  shook  his  head.  Drawing  her  down 
by  him  on  the  sofa,  he  looked  at  her  gravely. 

"  Cary,"  he  said.  "  Told  me  you  didn't  know 
him." 

"  Oh,  dear,  old,  jealous  Uncle  Sing-Sing,  is  that 
troubling  you?"  She  kissed  him  prettily.  "I'm 
sorry.  I  really  never  saw  him  before  an  hour  ago 
—  that  is,  to  talk  to  particularly.  I  came  across 
him  in  the  park  and  he  was  rude  without  meaning 
to  be  so,  and  I  punished  him.  I  shouldn't  have  done 


34  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

it,  I  suppose,  but  when  he  said  that  he  thought  girls 
of  my  type  did  nothing  but  dance  and  go  to  the 
theatre,  I  vowed  to  change  his  views." 

"And  you  have,  dear!"  broke  in  Mrs.  Copley 
from  the  fireplace. 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so,  Mamma?  If  you  do,  I 
must  have." 

Long  after  her  godfather  had  left  the  house  and 
she  had  picked  up  a  book  to  read  comfortably  on  the 
sofa,  her  mother's  opinion  obtruded  itself  upon 
Rosalind;  and  she  laid  down  her  book  and  mused  on 
the  reflected  flames  dancing  now  high,  now  low  on 
the  richly  filled  shelves.  In  such  matters  Mrs.  Cop- 
ley was  a  shrewd  judge. 


CHAPTER  IV 

GARY   BUYS   A   CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

THE  memory  of  the  meeting  with  Rosalind  lin- 
gered uneasily  in  Gary's  mind  for  several  days 
before  becoming  submerged.  At  first  he  was 
keenly  affected,  and  did  not  find  in  the  established 
order  of  his  measured  and  calm  life  that  complete 
satisfaction  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  Beyond 
the  page  of  his  law  book,  over  his  desk,  outside  of 
the  window,  there  lay  new  fields,  at  which  he  stared 
and  made  brave,  strange  pictures  for  his  inward  eye. 
When  he  walked  home  from  the  office,  he  paused  in 
the  crisp  stillness  before  the  statue  of  Washington. 
The  few  people  crunching  past  on  the  snowy  paths 
observed  him  gravely  raise  his  hat;  for  him  the  Gen- 
eral had  taken  on  a  new  reverence.  He  hoped  to 
meet  Rosalind  again  in  the  Public  Gardens,  but  was 
not  rewarded  with  even  a  glimpse.  To  call  at  29 
Commonwealth  did  not  occur  to  him  as  a  solution  of 
his  uneasiness.  He  had  never  made  a  voluntary 
call;  in  his  sedate,  dry  schedule  there  was  no  place 
for  such  a  thing. 

Gradually  his  work  enveloped  him.  Rosalind 
was  forgotten  in  the  new  interest  of  a  building  in- 
vestigation, to  a  committee  on  which  he  had  been  ap- 
pointed by  the  Mayor.  In  the  work  there  were  sta- 
tistics and  facts  to  be  obtained  by  personal  examina- 
tion; the  committee  went  high  and  low  over  the  city, 
delving  into  unsanitary  cellars,  creaking  up  the 

35 


36  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

broken  stairs  of  rickety  apartment  houses,  scrupu- 
lously examining  filth-filled  alleys,  fire-hazards,  un- 
safe roofs,  and  toppling  sheds  —  so  many  dangers 
and  menaces  that  Gary  came  to  think  the  city  was  in 
a  hopelessly  wretched  condition.  On  the  day  be- 
fore Christmas  he  had  been  asked  by  the  Chairman 
of  the  Committee  to  examine  the  cellars  of  some 
miserable,  brick  lodging-houses  in  the  rear  of  the 
Charles  Street  Jail.  The  precinct  was  mean  and 
dirty;  no  snow  that  ever  fluttered  down  from 
Heaven  could  hide  its  drab  character.  Children  lit- 
tered the  narrow  streets,  making  a  bedlam  of  their 
poor  games. 

Gary's  request  to  examine  the  houses  was  met  with 
open  suspicion.  A  cellar  may  be  only  a  cellar  to 
Smith,  Jones,  or  Gary;  but  if  one  must  live  in  it,  it  is 
a  castle,  too. 

"  Cellar?  "  asked  the  Italian  mistress  of  the  first 
house,  standing  in  the  doorway  with  her  arms 
akimbo.  "  I  no  understan'." 

Gary  pointed  to  a  grimy  pane  of  glass  on  the  level 
of  the  street,  behind  which  a  baby  squalled. 

"  I  am  from  the  Government,"  he  explained  pleas- 
antly, "  the  mayor.  I  want  to  go  down  and  look 
about  where  the  baby  is." 

The  black  Italian  eyes  snapped  suspiciously. 

"  Ma  babee  ?     What  you  thinka  ?  " 

She  turned  to  another  woman,  arrived  from  across 
the  street,  and,  while  Gary  stood  patiently  by,  argued 
in  Italian  with  quick  gestures  of  distrust.  The  con- 
ference resulted  in  a  grudging  admission  of  his  great 
form  into  the  little  house,  which  was  filled  with  a 
smell  mingling  everything  cooked  there  since  Novem- 
ber's cold  weather  had  closed  all  the  windows  for  the 
last  time  until  spring.  As  they  walked  down  the 


GARY  BUYS  A  PRESENT  37 

narrow,  dark  hall,  bare  of  any  decoration  other  than 
dust,  the  noxious  deadness  of  the  air  choked  in  his 
throat.  By  means  of  a  narrow,  cramped  ladder  the 
two  Italian  women  descended,  followed  by  Gary, 
scarcely  able  to  squeeze  through  the  small  opening. 
A  mud-stained  square  of  glass  alone  admitted  air 
and  light  to  the  room.  Pale,  dirty  sunshine  drifted 
through  it,  mocking  the  absence  of  all  comfort  with 
its  faded  beams.  About  the  room  rolled  a  fetid 
billow  of  heat;  and  in  a  corner,  where  a  pile  of  rags 
was  gathered,  shrieked  a  baby.  But  though  most 
miserable  in  furnishings,  the  room  had  one  virtue: 
it  was  a  degree  cleaner  than  the  hallway. 

"  How  many  of  you  live  here?  "  asked  Gary,  as 
he  accustomed  his  eyes  to  the  gloom  and  examined 
carefully  the  walls  and  ceiling. 

"  Me  an'  Pietro,  ma'  man,  an'  Lucia  an'  Victor 
an'  Bici  an'  Tripolita,  ma  bambina  cara !  "  Catch- 
ing up  the  sobbing,  little  bundle  of  dirty  rags,  she 
pressed  it  to  her  half-bare  breast. 

There  was  a  sound  of  sleigh  bells  outside,  and  of 
horses  trampling  the  snow  near  the  dirty  pane  of 
glass.  As  Gary  bent  down  to  look  out,  a  cracked 
bell  tinkled  in  the  hall  above.  The  baby  stopped 
crying,  as  if  the  jangle  was  a  music  to  its  ears. 

"  It  ees  Lady;  it  ees  Mees  Lady,"  cried  out  the 
Italian  women  excitedly;  and  they  swarmed  up  the 
little  ladder,  baby  and  all,  leaving  Gary,  choked  with 
the  squalor  of  the  place,  to  follow  them  as  best  he 
might.  When  half  way  up  the  wretched  ladder,  the 
sound  of  the  visitor's  voice  checked  him  suddenly; 
he  hesitated  in  the  darkened  end  of  the  passage, 
thrilled  and  eager.  It  was  Rosalind. 

"  Merry  Christmas,  Mrs.  Mario,"  she  was  say- 
ing. "  How  are  you?  " 


38  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  Ah,  wella,  dear  Lady,  wella." 

"And  Pietro?  And  the  children?  Bid's  cold? 
Does  she  cough  any  longer?  " 

The  Italian  women  were  transformed.  Their 
frowns  were  exchanged  for  smiles  and  friendly  ges- 
ticulation; their  dark  eyes  sparkled;  their  nervous 
bodies  shook  excitedly. 

"  Come  ina,  dear  Lady!     Come  outa  da  cold." 
'  Thank  you,  I  cannot  this  time.     I've  only  come 
to  bring  Bici  her  Christmas  present,   and  I  have 
others   to   leave.     If  you'll   take   it,   I'll  give   you 
Maria's  now,  Mrs.  Ferrari." 

The  other  Italian  woman  smiled  and  ducked,  her 
ear-rings  bobbing  against  her  yellow  cheeks.  Fear- 
ful that  Rosalind  depart,  yet  timid  in  the  sudden  re- 
awakening of  her  presence,  Cary  moved  uncertainly 
down  the  little  hall.  Rosalind  was  the  first  to  notice 
him,  and  cried  out,  "  Why,  Mr.  Cary !  However 
did  you  happen  to  get  in  Mrs.  Mario's  house?  " 

He  took  the  extended  hand  and  shook  it. 

"  It's  —  it's  a  building  committee  I'm  on.  We 
have  to  investigate  Boston  houses  and  alleys  and 
cellars.  I've  been  rather  suspected  by  these  ladies. 
Couldn't  you— ?" 

Rosalind  laughed  merrily. 

"  He's  perfectly  all  right,  Mrs.  Mario.  He's  a 
good  friend  of  mine." 

As  Rosalind's  hand  rested  protectingly  on  his 
sleeve  for  a  moment,  he  sought  to  estimate  correctly 
the  degree  of  warmth  in  her  voice.  It  had  not  been 
at  all  necessary  for  her  to  be  so  enthusiastic;  he 
could  have  imagined  a  far  more  cold  and  common- 
place greeting.  Perhaps  he  had  made  an  impres- 
sion. That  same  innate  pride  which  ruffles  and 
fans  the  peacock's  iridescent  tail  swelled  in  Gary's 


GARY  BUYS  A  PRESENT  39 

heart,  and  when  Rosalind  bade  farewell  to  the 
women,  he  turned  away  with  her  feeling  very  strong 
and  pleasingly  masterful. 

"  I'm  for  Blossom  Street  next,1'  said  Rosalind. 
"  Are  you  going  that  way?  I've  sent  the  sleigh  on 
ahead." 

Although  he  had  no  business  on  Blossom  Street, 
Gary  nodded  in  reply  to  her  question,  and  they 
walked  along  side  by  side. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  at  it?  "  he  asked. 

"  This  is  my  fifth  year;  I  began  when  I  came  out. 
Is  it  still  a  source  of  surprise?  " 

"  Of  interest  rather."  Gary  looked  at  her  criti- 
cally, more  at  ease.  He  could  not  help  admiring 
her  dress,  a  simple  but  lovely  brown,  such  as  is  sel- 
dom seen  in  the  environs  of  Blossom  Street. 

"  You  have  the  right  idea  about  clothes,"  he  said 
ingenuously. 

Rosalind  looked  at  him,  puzzled. 

"I  —  I  mean  you  don't  dress  the  part  of  a  social 
worker." 

"  Why  should  any  one?  " 

"  Lots  do.  They  put  on  their  worst  clothes  and 
then  try  to  spread  joy." 

"  I  know.  They  think  that  they  can  get  closer 
to  the  poor  that  way.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  poor 
people  think  they're  shamming.  I  feel  perfectly 
sure  that  Mrs.  Mario  likes  to  see  my  pretty  clothes 
just  as  much  as  me." 

"  I  don't  believe  that,"  objected  Gary  earnestly. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  dressing  down  to  people  any- 
way; I  learned  that  at  Brimmer  House  long  ago. 
Our  earliest  precept  was  that 

'  The  Colonel's  lady  and  Judy  O*  Grady 
Are  sisters  under  their  skins,'  " 


40  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  Do  you  give  all  your  girls  Christmas  presents?  " 

"  Well,  it's  not  much  to  do,"  disclaimed  Rosa- 
lind prettily,  "  and  they  appreciate  my  presents  ten 
times  more  than  any  others  I  give.  It  gets  to  be  the 
best  part  of  Christmas,  Mr.  Gary.  They  give  me 
presents,  too.  About  this  time  of  year  I  receive  a 
perfect  flood  of  workbaskets  and  mottoes  which  they 
have  made  in  the  House." 

"  That  is  a  wretched  room  of  Mrs.  Mario's. 
You've  been  in  it?  " 

"  Yes.  Her  husband  digs  sewers,  which  does  not 
add  to  the  general  comfort." 

They  turned  up  Blossom  Street  and  passed  the 
great,  snow-covered  buildings  of  the  Massachusetts 
General  Hospital.  At  the  genesis  of  its  name  this 
dull  street  decades  ago  had  ceased  to  wonder;  now 
dirt-brown  snow  made  the  designation  seem  even 
more  of  a  mockery  than  did  its  flowerless  summer. 

"  You  did  not  come  for  further  punishment,"  said 
Rosalind. 

"  No,  I  —  er  —  I've  been  so  busy  with  this  work 
—  the  very  next  day  I  was  appointed.  But  — " 

Cary  did  not  go  on,  halted  by  a  hopeless  inability 
to  phrase  the  conclusion.  It  was  in  his  mind,  but  not 
on  his  tongue,  to  tell  her  that  he  had  thought  often 
about  their  previous  meeting. 

" —  But  you've  changed  your  ideas  about  girls?  " 
Rosalind  concluded  with  a  bright  look. 

"  Decidedly,  most  decidedly." 

"  A  Daniel  Drought  to  judgment !  Now  that  I've 
done  my  duty  to  the  entire  flock  of  debutantes,  past, 
present,  and  future,  by  enlightening  so  blind  a  judge, 
I  shall  give  him  a  Christmas  compensation.  Your 
sins  are  pardoned.  Arise,  Daniel,  and  spread  the 
gospel :  you  are  forgiven." 


GARY  BUYS  A  PRESENT  41 

"  Thank  you.     I  —  I  — " 

Running  lightly  up  the  front  steps  of  a  forbidding 
apartment  of  yellow  brick,  Rosalind  turned  on  the 
landing.  To  the  open-mouthed  Gary  she  looked  im- 
possibly out  of  place  and  beautiful  in  the  drab  entry- 
way. 

"  But  I  warn  you,  Mr.  Gary,  to  look  out  for  your- 
self. I'm  afraid  I  have  made  you  into  such  a  dan- 
gerously marriageable  man  that  some  young  girl  will 
seize  you,  if  you're  not  careful.  Perhaps  you  won't 
thank  me  then !  Merry  Christmas !  " 

She  was  gone,  leaving  Gary  on  the  sidewalk,  hat  in 
hand.  No  one  had  ever  talked  to  him  like  that  be- 
fore, and  he  was  astounded  to  find  how  much  it 
pleased  him.  This  second  meeting,  so  like  the  first, 
so  unexpected,  so  different  from  all  the  customary 
incidents  of  his  life,  like  the  first  swept  him  off  his 
feet.  What  had  she  said?  A  marriageable  man? 
Some  young  girl  would  seize  him,  if  he  were  not  care- 
ful? Gary  suddenly  realised  that  he  was  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk  with  his  hat  off  — 
smiling  at  himself  to  the  unmistakable  delight  of 
Rosalind's  coachman.  He  flushed  self-consciously, 
hurriedly  replaced  his  hat,  and  strode  off  with  his 
thoughts  far,  far  away  from  municipal  investiga- 
tions. 

As  he  walked,  he  whistled.  A  bold,  brave  idea 
had  come  into  his  mind,  and  his  long  dormant  blood 
ran  like  sap  in  springtime.  To-morrow  was  Christ- 
mas. Should  he  not  give  Rosalind  a  present?  He 
smiled  rather  foolishly  to  himself  as  he  wondered 
what  she  would  say.  And  then  his  father  and  Aunt 
Sara  —  Gary  laughed  outright  at  the  thought  of 
their  surprise.  But  what  could  he  give  her?  What 
do  girls  like?  A  sensible,  inexperienced  man  could 


42  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

hardly  know  what  would  please  a  girl.  Then,  con- 
science-stricken at  having  so  soon  forgot  his  lesson, 
he  remembered  that  he  was  as  of  old  scanting  the 
intelligence  and  ability  of  the  other  sex.  Still  a 
woman  is  a  woman,  he  told  himself;  he  could  not 
give  her  cigars  or  a  bottle  of  sherry. 

In  hopes  of  finding  a  suggestion  he  glanced  about. 
His  brisk  strides  had  carried  him  up  over  Beacon 
Hill  into  the  more  fashionable  part  of  the  city,  and 
on  his  right  the  show  windows  of  a  great  florist  shop 
displayed  a  paradise  of  flowers.  He  stared  in  for 
so  long  a  time  without  being  able  to  make  up  his 
mind  to  enter  that  one  of  the  clerks  opened  the 
door;  then  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  in. 
He  found  himself  in  a  sweetly  odorous  maze  of 
flowers  with  clerks  bustling  on  all  sides. 

"  Christmas  flowers,  sir?  " 

'Yes.     What  do  you  recommend?" 

The  clerk,  of  course,  recommended  everything; 
pointed  out  holly  here,  an  azalea  there;  put  a  gar- 
denia to  Gary's  nose;  begged  him  to  smell  of  these 
violets  and  of  those  hyacinths;  until  Gary  in  sheer 
desperation  chose  a  dozen  white  roses.  He  did  not 
care  much  for  flowers,  but  knew  that  roses  were  al- 
ways appropriate. 

"  Send  them  to  Miss  Rosalind  Copley,  29  Com- 
monwealth. Enclose  this  and  charge  it  to  me." 

He  gave  the  man  his  card. 

;'  Will  you  write  on  it,  sir?  " 

Cary  took  the  card  back,  and  absently  accepted  a 
pen  from  the  clerk.  What  should  he  write  ?  What 
do  people  write  on  such  occasions?  Three  times  he 
wet  the  pen  in  ink,  vainly  searching  for  some  neat 
phrase  which  might  express  his  feelings.  If  there 
was  one,  he  could  not  find  it,  and  after  a  pause  which, 


GARY  BUYS  A  PRESENT  43 

he  thought,  must  have  made  him  appear  ridiculous 
in  the  clerk's  eyes,  he  wrote  down  nothing  but 
"  Merry  Christmas." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  They  will  go  to-night.  Merry 
Christmas,  sir." 

"  Merry  Christmas,"  Cary  echoed  vaguely. 

He  walked  slowly  down  Park  Street,  half  wish- 
ing he  had  not  sent  the  flowers  after  all.  How 
would  she  receive  them?  Would  she  not  think  it 
very  forward  in  him?  Surely  it  was  a  strange  thing 
for  him,  Benjamin  Cary,  to  be  doing! 

A  clock  struck  the  half  hour.  With  a  shame- 
faced start  he  remembered  his  long  established  cus- 
tom of  lunching  at  one  o'clock. 


CHAPTER  V 

DEALING   CHIEFLY   WITH    CHRISTMAS 

ONCE  every  year  8  Louisburg  Square  changed 
its  character.  The  hushed  magnificence 
which  enveloped  the  invalid  disappeared,  and 
that  unnatural  quiet  in  which  footsteps  were  not 
heard  and  voices  fainted  into  murmurs  was  sup- 
planted by  an  anomalous  gaiety.  On  Christmas  Eve 
the  very  house  itself  blazed  with  light.  The  Rom- 
neys  in  the  great  drawing-room  looked  superciliously 
down  upon  a  Christmas-tree  from  the  Sherborne 
farm,  brilliant  with  shimmering  spangles  arranged 
by  Rosalind  and  Edouard;  the  dinner-table  flamed 
with  candles,  myriad  reflections  of  which  danced  in 
the  silver  and  glass;  in  each  of  the  front  windows 
stood  twelve,  tall  Christmas  tapers  as  beacons  to  the 
carol  singers;  in  fact,  the  house  on  Christmas  Eve 
compared  with  the  house  on  other  nights  was  as 
music  compared  to  silence.  Light  supplanted  the 
customary  darkness;  laurel  wreaths  usurped  empty 
spaces  on  the  wall ;  mistletoe  and  holly  interlaced  the 
banisters  in  so  mischievous  a  way  that  no  lady  could 
remove  her  wrap  without  hazarding  a  kiss;  and, 
what  effected  the  greatest  change,  the  house  was 
filled  with  Christmas  merry-makers. 

The  party  was  strictly  a  family  affair.  This  night 
was  set  apart  for  the  genus  Copley  to  gather  to- 
gether and  talk,  and  if  noise  and  the  light  chatter 
of  many  tongues  be  evidence  of  enjoyment,  the 

44 


DEALING  WITH  CHRISTMAS        45 

Christmas  party  was  invariably  a  tremendous  suc- 
cess. As  a  result  of  the  bombardment  Mr.  Single- 
ton Singleton  usually  spent  his  Christmas  day  in 
bed;  but  since  he  considered  the  celebration  a  part  of 
his  position  as  the  oldest  and  wealthiest  of  the  Cop- 
ley blood,  each  year  the  invitations  went  out.  No 
one  was  omitted.  The  Copley  who  drank,  he  was 
invited;  the  queer  Singleton,  whose  wife  divorced 
him  because  he  sometimes  preferred  to  sleep  in  the 
bathtub,  he  was  invited;  the  trying  cousin,  whose 
grammatical  errors  gave  her  wealthier  relatives 
shivers,  she  was  welcomed;  and  even  the  poor  Pel- 
hams,  who  lived  in  a  flat  in  Chelsea  —  and  that  was 
about  all  —  there  was  a  place  for  them,  too.  They 
all  came,  rich  and  poor,  proud  and  humble,  old  Cop- 
pleys,  young  Copleys,  bent  Copleys,  frolicsome  Cop- 
leys, little  children  who  were  very  noisy  at  the  far 
end  of  the  room,  but  very  much  awed  when  near 
Mr.  Singleton  Singleton,  and  their  older  relations  on 
whom  the  tall,  silent  host  had  to  tell  the  truth  a 
similar  effect.  They  shook  his  hand  on  arriving  and 
endeavoured  to  be  polite  by  making  small-talk,  but  as 
he  never  talked  and  they  had  nothing  to  say,  they 
soon  chose  opportunities  to  steal  off  to  company  more 
congenial.  The  party  was  an  institution,  and,  since 
they  only  saw  the  invalid  this  one  night  in  the  year, 
they  regarded  him  as  a  material  part  of  the  insti- 
tution. One  cannot  converse  under  such  circum- 
stances. It  did  not  hurt  their  host's  feelings  in  the 
slightest;  he  did  not  care  for  them.  It  was  merely 
having  them  there,  the  preservation  of  the  old  cus- 
tom, and  perhaps  a  faint  regard  for  this  last 
flickering  of  his  social  life,  which  made  the  evening 
bearable.  As  long  as  he  could  sit  with  Rosalind's 
hand  in  his,  he  cared  not  a  whit  who  went  or  came. 


46  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

As  Rosalind  concluded  her  account  of  meeting 
Gary  that  morning,  the  poor  Pelhams  arrived. 
They  were  always  the  first  to  come;  in  Chelsea,  if  the 
invitation  read  seven  o'clock,  it  meant  seven  o'clock 
or  no  dinner.  Abashed  by  the  silence,  they  hesi- 
tated to  leave  the  hall,  and  Rosalind,  on  going  out  to 
see  what  had  happened,  found  them  there  sitting 
down  and  engaged  in  conversation  with  the  second 
man.  Their  embarrassment  soon  thawed  under  her 
welcome.  The  male  Pelham,  whose  hired  dress 
trousers  from  their  singular  fulness  must  have  been 
designed  for  Falstaffian  limbs,  even  ventured  to  kiss 
Rosalind  under  the  mistletoe;  and  it  was  in  the 
middle  of  this  operation  that  her  father  and  mother 
arrived.  The  Copley  who  drank  came  in  at  the 
same  time,  but,  labouring  under  the  misapprehension 
that  he  was  in  the  Club,  went  unobserved  up  the 
front  stairs  and  had  to  be  retrieved  somewhat  later 
from  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton's  bed,  on  which  he  had 
composed  himself  for  sleep.  At  seven-thirty,  the 
party  being  fully  assembled  and  the  children  con- 
sumed with  hunger  and  excitement,  Edouard  with  a 
flourish  announced  that  dinner  was  served. 

Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  took  his  seat  at  one  end 
of  the  great  table  in  silence;  Rosalind  queened  it  at 
the  other,  excited  and  glowing.  In  a  noisy  en- 
deavour to  find  their  places  the  guests  bumped  into 
each  other  and  apologised  and  laughed.  The  un- 
grammatical  cousin  admiringly  told  Mr.  Quincy  that 
"  she  never  was  set  down  to  such  a  table,  and  could 
he^help  her  find  her  seat,  the  candles  fluttered  her 
so."  This  kind  office  performed,  and  the  Copley 
who  drank  being  taken  out  of  the  rubber  tree  by 
Edouard,  the  dinner  went  off  with  a  whirl  of  conver- 
sation. 


DEALING  WITH  CHRISTMAS        47 

"  Joseph,  was  anything  ever  more  luxuriant  than 
this?" 

"  No  champagne  for  John !  John !  John  Cop- 
ley Ingersoll,  not  a  drop  !  " 

"  Land  love  us !  "  the  ungrammatical  cousin  whis- 
pers confidentially,  "  I  think  Milly  ought  to  let  him 
have  a  drop  on  Christmas." 

"I  wouldn't  think  of  using  paint!  But  this  is 
a  kind  of  enamel  which  Mme.  Louise  says  is  bene- 
ficial to  the  skin.  So  I  — " 

"  By  gad,  Rose,  take  my  advice,  my  dear,  and 
never  marry  but  for  love.  Look  at  me !  I  have 
never  married,  though  I  might  have  had  a  dozen 
girls.  A  little  wine,  Rose!  Merry  Christmas  and 
my  best  wishes !  " 

a  Jo- Jo,  are  you  going  to  the  Fancy  Dress  Ball?  " 

"  Certainly  am !     Wouldn't  miss  it,  Beth." 

"What's  your  disguise;  true  love?"  laughs  Mr. 
Copley. 

"  No,  Jack,  no.  I'm  going  as  a  Bashi-Bazouk. 
How's  that?  How's  that,  Lucy?  " 

"  Mercy  me,  Joseph,  I  guess  you'll  be  just  elegant 
as  a  Bash-of-Bazoo.  What  are  they?  Somethin' 
foreign,  I  suppose?" 

"  Rose,"  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  speaks  for  the 
first  time  and  raises  his  glass. 

"  A  Bashi-Bazouk,  Jo-Jo!  You  can't  go  as  that; 
you'll  look  worse  than  Mr.  Tupman  in  '  Pickwick.' 
You  might  as  well  go  as  Pavlowa !  " 

"  Well,  I  did  once,  Beth." 

"  Yes,  but  Mrs.  Hereford  said  you  were  in- 
decent." 

"  Rose  is  going  as  Sir  Galahad." 

"  I  made  the  costume  myself,  Uncle  Jo- Jo  —  it's 
wonderfully  put  — " 


48  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  A  merry,  merry  Christmas  to  all!  " 

Mr.  Copley  proposes  the  toast  for  Mr.  Singleton 
Singleton  and  the  party  rises  in  happy  laughter. 
Even  the  invalid  is  helped  to  his  feet  by  Edouard  and 
lifts  his  glass  with  a  trembling  hand.  The  children 
drink  their  drop  of  wine  with  conscious  pride  —  for 
every  one  has  a  glass,  even  Edouard  —  and  the 
laughter  is  general  when  Ingersoll,  despite  his  wife's 
protest,  drains  off  a  bumper  to  Christmas. 

"  Land  of  mercy,"  exclaims  the  ungrammatical 
cousin,  who  has  swallowed  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a 
teaspoonful  of  wine,  "  how  this  champagne  does  set 
me  a-flutter.  It's  the  bubbles  most  likely  do  it. 
Joseph,  I  don't  know  when  I  was  to  such  a  party." 

"  Good  for  you,  Lucy,  very  good.  Expands  you, 
makes  you  cheery,  you  know.  Your  health,  Lucy! 
God  bless  us,  your  health !  Oh,  come,  a  little  more  ! 
Never  tell  me !  " 

"  Mrs.  Curtis  is  running  the  ball.  Dr.  Gary's 
sister,  you  know." 

"  And  Rosalind  is  taking  up  with  her  nephew?  " 
The  ungrammatical  cousin  misses  no  gossip. 

14  I  met  him  in  the  slums  to-day,  Cousin  Lucy." 

"  Ned,  if  you  eat  any  more  nuts,  Santa  Claus 
won't—" 

'  Yes,  Beth,  I've  no  doubt  you  saw  me  with  Miss 
Hepplethwaite  at  the  Copley  Plaza ;  she  lassooed  me 
in  the  park.  Life's  not  safe  nowadays  in  public !  " 

'  You're  an  old  hypocrite,  Jo-Jo,  I  think.  Tell 
me  now,  did  she  say  you'd  look  well  as  a  Bashi- 
Bazouk?"  Mrs.  Copley  laughs  till  the  wonderful 
pearls  are  a-tremble  on  her  more  wonderful  neck. 

"  Ooooph !  " 

The  children  rustle  in  their  seats  and  gasp,  and 
the  Copley  who  drinks  is  firmly  convinced  that  he  has 


DEALING  WITH  CHRISTMAS        49 

seen  a  serpent  belching  fire  in  the  air  before  him; 
but  it  is  only  Edouard  with  the  plum-pudding,  a 
round,  odorous  affair,  dancing  with  blue  brandy 
flames,  and  so  large  that  Edouard  staggers  as  he 
bears  it  around  the  table  with  a  proud  smile.  It  is 
indeed  a  triumph  of  culinary  art.  There  is  no  mor- 
tal yet  born  who  could  refuse  such  a  dish;  so  it  is 
cut,  and  in  a  fair  way  towards  being  finished  when 
Edouard  comes  bustling  back  with  the  information 
that  the  carol  singers  are  at  the  other  end  of  the 
Square.  A  hush  falls. 

O   little   town   of   Bethlehem! 
How  still  we  see  thee  lie  — 

Unable  to  wait  to  hear  more,  the  children  murmur 
with  expectant  delight.  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton 
rises,  and,  during  the  general  exodus  to  the  front 
windows,  the  house  is  plunged  in  darkness.  With 
only  flaming  rows  of  candles  in  the  windows,  the 
company  waits  and  listens  in  hushed  silence  as  the 
band  of  children  from  afar  sing  their  hymns,  cry  out 
"  Merry  Christmas  "  and  "  Good-will,"  and  then 
move  to  the  next  illuminated  window. 

At  length  they  stand  before  Mr.  Singleton  Single- 
ton's house.  The  hard  splendour  of  a  cold  win- 
ter's evening  so  whitens  the  Square  that  the  electric 
street-lamps  seem  consciously  ashamed  of  being  lit. 
In  the  starlight  the  little  band  of  singers  is  vaguely 
distinguishable.  For  the  most  part  it  is  composed  of 
children  in  the  thickest  of  coats  and  mufflers,  but 
there  are  a  few  older  people  carrying  lanterns  feebly 
aflame;  behind  the  singers  a  great  crowd  of  cheerful 
spectators  masses  along  the  wrought-iron  fence  and 
fills  the  Square  with  shadowy  forms.  The  singing 


50  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

is  clear,  sweet,  and  crisp,  piercing  the  tingling  air  and 

lifting  each  heart  to  the  ever-old  and  yet  ever-new 

glory  of  Christmas. 

Now  the  young  voices  take  up  Richard  Willis's 

hymn: 

It  came  upon  a  midnight  clear, 

That  glorious  song  of  old, 

From  angels  bending  near  the  earth, 

To  touch  their  harps  of  gold: 

"  Peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men," 

From  heaven's  all-gracious  King  — 

Another  hymn  and  yet  another,  and  then  the 
singers  move  on  amid  choruses  of  "  Merry  Christ- 
mas "  from  within  the  house  and  without.  The 
cold  air  seems  warm  with  cheerful  messages.  By 
this  time  the  children  are  very  tired,  and  the  Copley 
who  drinks,  excited  by  the  singing,  mistakenly  as- 
sumes that  he  is  at  the  opera  and  puts  on  his  top  hat 
to  go  out  between  the  acts.  The  guests  begin  to 
drift  away,  singly  and  in  groups.  Rosalind  stays  to 
the  last,  and  when  she  finally  does  say  good-night, 
leaves  as  the  best  present  of  all,  a  long,  affectionate 
Christmas  kiss  on  her  godfather's  cheek. 

The  presents  were  distributed  early  next  morning 
in  the  Copley  house  with  a  great  deal  of  that  gayness 
of  heart  which  had  always  been  in  Rosalind's  family 
as  much  a  part  of  Christmas  as  the  actual  gifts  them- 
selves. Rosalind  was  mightily  surprised  to  receive 
the  flowers  from  Benjamin  Cary,  and  stared  at  the 
card  in  silence.  Flowers  from  Philip  Brooks,  from 
Francis  Wharton,  from,  Frederic  Hoyt  she  took  as  a 
matter  of  course,  but  flowers  from  Cary  — !  She 
was  pleased,  yet  at  the  same  time  puzzled. 

"What's  that,  Rose?" 


DEALING  WITH  CHRISTMAS         51 

"  Look,   Mamma !     Flowers  from  Ben  Gary." 

"  The  idea  !  What  have  you  done  to  that  young 
man?  Let  me  see  the  card.  Only  '  Merry  Christ- 
mas ' —  isn't  that  typical  of  the  quiet  man  who  says 
a  grain  of  sand  and  means  the  world?  His  '  Merry 
Christmas  '  is  worth  a  page  of  Billy  Harte !  " 

"  I  know,  Mother.     I  shouldn't  have  done  it!  " 

"What?" 

"  Taken  him  to  Brimmer  House.  It's  all  my 
fault;  he  never  thought  of  girls  before  that." 

Mrs.  Copley  looked  at  the  card  and  laughed. 

"  The  agony  of  soul  the  composition  of  this  great 
thought  cost  him  must  have  been  tremendous." 

"  But  he  was  rude."  Rosalind  looked  quizzically 
at  her  mother.  "  I'm  afraid  I've  done  wrong.  I 
—  I  didn't  want  him  to  send  me  flowers;  I  only  did 
it  to  —  to  humanise  him,  to  give  him  a  shock.  I 
hope  he  — " 

"  Oh,  well,  leave  him  alone,  my  dear,  and  he'll 
forget.  Your  father  used  to  give  me  flowers  before 
we  were  engaged,  but  I  always  had  to  prompt  him." 

As  she  turned  the  card  over  in  her  hand,  the  melan- 
choly strains  of  Handel's  "  Largo  "  drifted  in  from 
a  graphophone  in  the  music  room. 

"  Who's  playing  that  on  Christmas  Day!  Jo-Jo? 
How  can  vou  do  such  a  thing?  You  ought  to  be 
merry!  Look,  Rose." 

Beside  the  phonograph  sat  Mr.  Quincy,  a  picture 
of  despair. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Uncle  Jo-Jo?  You've  been 
blue  ever  since  you  came  in." 

"  Blue,  my  dearest  Rose,  I'm  ultramarine,  purple, 
black!  Oh,  it's  awful!  No!  Awful  is  no  word 
for  it!" 

"What  is  it,  Jo- Jo?" 


52  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  Oh,  nothing.     Ha  —  ha  !     Nothing." 

Changing  the  record  to  the  "  Maiden's  Prayer," 
Mr.  Quincy  gave  himself  up  to  a  grief  which  out- 
wardly showed  in  sundry  shakings  of  the  head  and 
heartfelt  sighs. 

"  Tell  us,  please,  Uncle  Jo-Jo." 

"  Rose,  never,  never  trust  any  one !  Listen  to 
me:  I'll  make  your  blood  run  cold.  Those 
da—" 

"Jo-Jo!" 

" —  those  Hepplethwaite  girls  by  artful  insinua- 
tions led  me  to  believe  that  they  were  going  to  give 
me  a  Christmas  present.  Foolish  old  idiot  that  I 
was,  I  believed  them.  In  retaliation  I  went  and 
bought  'em  books  and  boxes  of  flowers,  made  a  regu- 
lar fool  of  myself  —  and  now,  now  no  present  has 
come  from  them!  I'm  desperate.  They'll  never 
let  me  hear  the  last  of  it,  you  know.  *  Oh,  those 
sweet  flowers,  Joseph !  '  '  Oh,  that  engrossing 
book !  '  Sweet  flowers,  fiddle-de-dee !  Engrossing 
book,  bosh!  " 

"  Whatever  will  they  say  at  the  Club,  Jo- Jo?  " 

Overwhelmed  by  mock  misery,  Mr.  Quincy  opened 
both  doors  of  the  Victrola  and  put  his  head  as  far 
inside  as  possible,  where  he  kept  it  till  the  end  of  the 
"  Maiden's  Prayer."  Then,  purged  of  his  grief,  he 
went  off  with  Rosalind  to  see  Mr.  Singleton  Single- 
ton. 

They  found  the  invalid  propped  up  in  his  great 
four-posted  bed,  on  the  edge  of  which  Rosalind 
seated  herself.  After  a  morning  kiss,  she  displayed 
Benjamin  Gary's  card. 

"  I'm  afraid,  Uncle  Sing-Sing,  he's  going  to  fall 
in  love  with  me."  She  made  up  a  face  of  mimic 
grief. 


DEALING  WITH  CHRISTMAS         53 

"Going  to!"  cried  Mr.  Quincy.  "Has,  you 
mean!  Why!  I  could  have  told  you  that  the  first 
ever  I  saw  of  him.  Bull-dog  love,  you  know.  Ah ! 
Look  out  for  that  kind,  Rose,  my  dear.  Put  up  a 
dike :  it  washes  it  down.  Banish  it :  it  knows  no 
exile.  It  sticketh  closer  than  a  barrel  of  brothers. 
Mark  me!  You'll  be  married  in  six  months,  if 
you're  not  careful.  Take  my  word  for  it !  " 
'You  do  not  like  him?" 

"  Of  course  not,  Uncle  Sing-Sing.  I  only  know 
him  out  of  pique,  as  it  were.  But  he's  all  right,  you 
know.  I  do  like  him  for  a  change ;  he  is  so  different 
from  Billy  and  Phil." 

"  He's  a  man.     That's  what  Tony  objects  to." 

"  He  is  a  man."  There  was  a  trace  of  enthu- 
siasm in  Rosalind's  voice.  "  Billy  and  Phil  aren't." 

"  They  will  be  some  day,  my  dear,  and  don't  you 
forget  it.  Tony  and  I  were  flighty  once.  Fools 
to-day,  fathers  to-morrow  —  and  so  the  world  goes. 
Take  Philip  Brooks.  In  ten  years  —  don't  laugh, 
Rose !  —  he'll  be  a  warden  of  Trinity  Church,  and 
fold  up  the  map  of  Europe.  Earth  will  cease  to 
have  wonders  for  him;  he  will  not  care  to  know 
them.  But  — ]' 

"  I  don't  believe  Gary's  narrow,  if  that's  what  you 
mean." 

"  No  —  no !  Perhaps  he  is,  perhaps  he  isn't. 
What  I  say  is  this:  just  because  an  undergraduate 
wears  a  club  ribbon  and  prefers  Victor  Herbert  to 
Victor  Hugo,  don't  you  think  that  he's  always  going 
to  be  a  puppy!  So  many  girls  marry  an  older  man 
because  he  is  calm  and  serious.  Don't,  Rose ! 
Marry  a  wild-cat  or  a  polar  bear,  but  don't  get  taken 
in  by  the  false  gravity  of  years.  Wait  till  you  get 
the  sun  and  some  man  mixed  up  —  then  jump !  " 


54  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

Rosalind  went  over  to  the  writing  desk  and  sat 
down,  a  smile  twisting  her  lips. 

"  Never  fear,  Uncle  Jo-Jo !  I  shan't  jump  just 
yet,  but  I  will  write  and  thank  him  for  the  flowers. 
How  shall  it  go?  I  must  be  careful!  .  .  .  Dear 
Mr.  Gary-- 1  was  surprised  and  delighted  .  .  . 
(shall  I  say  '  surprised,'  Uncle  Jo- Jo?)  ...  to  re- 
ceive your  beautiful  roses.  They  were  in  perfect 
condition.  Roses  are  always  beautiful,  I  think,  and 
the  loveliness  of  these,  I  assure  you,  is  greatly  ap- 
preciated ...  (I  call  that  neat!  I've  used  it  be- 
fore. Now  I'll  end  it;  that's  enough,  don't  you 
think  so,  Uncle  Sing-Sing?  However,  shall  I  say 
it?  Let  me  see.)  ...  I  shall  hope  to  see  you  at 
the  Fancy  Dress,  where  I  can  really  thank  you  for 
your  thought  of  me.  Sincerely  yours,  Rosalind  Cop- 
ley. ...  (I  think  that's  awfully  good  about  the 
Fancy  Dress.  It  ends  up  with  a  flourish,  you  see, 
and,  of  course,  he  won't  go)." 

"Sure?" 

"  Sure,  Uncle  Sing-Sing!  And  so  closes  Episode 
the  First." 

Benjamin  received  the  letter  the  next  afternoon, 
and  in  quite  a  different  mood  from  that  in  which  it 
was  written.  On  coming  home  he  turned  naturally 
to  the  tray  on  which  reposed  the  day's  assortment  of 
mail.  Among  the  letters  for  him  there  was  one,  the 
fair,  precise  handwriting  of  which  made  his  blood 
suddenly  tingle.  He  had  been  waiting  for  it,  expect- 
ing it.  With  almost  a  laugh  at  the  novelty  of  the 
thing,  he  carried  the  little  note  to  a  comfortable  sofa 
in  the  living-room.  Eager  to  read,  yet  more  eager  to 
prolong  the  sensation  of  being  alone  in  a  strange 
land,  he  smoked  a  cigarette  and  like  all  prosaic  men 


DEALING  WITH  CHRISTMAS         55 

dreamed  in  the  blue  smoke  which  eddied  to  the  lamp. 
It  was  ludicrous,  yet  delightful  and  disturbing.  He 
had  once  seen  a  moving-picture  hero  ravished  by  the 
romance  of  his  cigarette  smoke;  then  the  situation 
had  seemed  crude  and  silly,  but  perhaps  he  had  mis- 
judged it.  He  opened  the  envelope  and  read  the 
lines  at  first  hastily,  the  second  time  with  increasing 
care.  Having  had  absolutely  no  experience  with 
such  letters,  he  was  mystified  by  its  sentiments.  Was 
she  really  pleased  or  was  this  but  a  formal  way  of 
saying  thank  you?  The  "  surprised  "  disturbed  him; 
evidently  she  thought  him  rude,  forward,  intruding. 
Yet  at  the  same  time  she  was  "  delighted  "  and  "  en- 
joyed their  beauty."  The  more  Gary  endeavoured 
to  form  a  judicial  opinion  on  this  point,  the  less  con- 
clusive he  became,  and,  deeming  the  evidence  on  this 
point  insufficient,  at  length  proceeded  to  examine 
scrupulously  the  next  line.  There  the  allusion  to  the 
"  Fancy  Dress  "  puzzled  him.  Supposedly  it  was  a 
dance,  but  when  or  where  he  had  no  idea;  fancy  dress 
was  not  his  habiliment.  To  cap  his  perplexity  she 
seemed  to  express  a  hope  of  seeing  him  at  this  ball, 
seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  he  would  be  there. 
Gary  sought  to  imagine  what  a  Fancy  Dress  could  be 
like.  During  his  solitary  meal  the  question  tortured 
him  till  he  could  bear  the  uncertainty  no  longer  and 
determined  to  smoke  his  after  dinner  cigar  with  his 
aunt,  Mrs.  Curtis.  To  her  he  unburdened  his 
trouble. 

"  Aunt  Sara,  I  came  to  ask  you  what  '  The  Fancy 
Dress  '  was." 

"It  wasn't;  it  will  be  a  dance  on  Friday  night. 
It's  the  regular  New  Year's  Charity  Ball  that  we  get 
up." 

"  A  nice  thing,  I  suppose  ?  " 


56  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"The  best  in  the  year,  Ben,  but  why?  The 
leopard  isn't  changing  his  spots,  is  he?  " 

"Why,  Aunt  Sara,  I  — I"  (Ben  flushed  as  he 
said  it),  "  I  thought  I  might  go  this  year  if  I  could 
get  invited." 

"  You  go,  Ben !  You !  You're  in  love ;  you  must 
be!" 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Sara,  that's  rot.  Women  do  take  the 
most  awful  leaps  to  false  conclusions !  " 

"  I  know,  Benjamin,"  she  said  shrewdly,  "  but 
the  farther  they  leap,  the  more  near  right  they  are." 

"Aunt  Sara,  is  that  your  own?" 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  Then  it  is  very  clever  of  you,"  said  Ben  in- 
genuously. "  But  you  didn't  leap  far  enough  for  me 
this  time !  " 

"  The  surprise  was  too  great,  dear !  I'd  as  soon 
expect  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  at  the  ball  as 
you." 

"  Could  you  get  him  a  ticket,  if  he  came?  " 

"Yes,  I  certainly  could;  and  I  can  get  you  one 
also,  although  you've  already  refused  once.  I'm 
running  it  this  year,  you  see." 

"  I'm  glad  oif  that;  you  can  take  care  of  me." 

"  All  right,  my  dear.  You  seem  to  need  it,"  she 
added  maliciously.  "  What  are  you  going  as?  " 

"Going  as?" 

''  Why  yes,  it's  in  costume,  as  one  might  gather 
from  the  name." 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  wear  a  costume  ?  " 

Mrs.  Curtis  nodded. 

"  Never !  My  dear  aunt,  me  in  a  costume  ?  It 
would  be  too  conspicuous  —  I'll  just  wear  a  dress 
suit." 

1  You  may  if  you  want  to,  my  dear  Ben,  but  if  you 


DEALING  WITH  CHRISTMAS         57 

take  my  advice,  you'll  wear  a  costume  if  only  to 
avoid  conspicuousness.  You  would  probably  be  the 
only  dress  suit  there." 

Benjamin  was  aghast. 

"  Does  every  one  put  on  a  disguise?  " 

"  From  the  fattest  to  the  thinnest,  from  the 
bravest  to  the  most  cowardly." 

"  Then  I  shall,  Aunt  Sara !  Can  you  give  me  one  ? 
I  remember  you  used  to  have  a  great  many." 

Mrs.  Curtis  surveyed  him  critically. 

"  I  have  it !  "  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands.  "  I 
have  it!  Christopher  Columbus!  Oh,  Ben,  you 
will  be  stunning  in  green!  " 

So  Christopher  Columbus  it  was,  a  glorious,  green 
Christopher  Columbus,  in  a  slashed  silk  doublet, 
painfully  aware  of  the  exposure  of  his  legs  in  green 
tights,  and  painfully  clumsy  in  a  pair  of  fifteenth 
century  slippers. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    FANCY   DRESS   BALL 

IT  was  a  still  January  night,  so  cold  and  brilliant 
that  the  very  stars  seemed  frozen  into  glittering 
immovability  in  the  sky.  A  bitter  wind  whis- 
pered icily  through  the  streets,  eddied  about  great, 
pendant  icicles,  and  stole  off  to  moan  in  the  dark 
pockets  of  the  city.  There  were  few  people  abroad. 
A  policeman  swinging  his  arms  in  a  calisthenic  effort 
to  warm  himself,  a  miserable  passerby  whose  hurry- 
ing feet  rang  on  the  sidewalk,  a  taxicab  whirling  a 
shivering  passenger  from  one  haven  of  warmth  to 
another  —  these  were  the  occasional  manifestations 
of  life  in  a  city  which  took  its  ease  indoors. 

Copley  Square  alone  was  animated.  It  was  the 
night  of  the  Fancy  Dress  Ball  annually  held  at  the 
Copley  Plaza  in  behalf  of  the  Indigent  Orphans  of 
Boston.  As  the  invitations  openly  stated,  the  ball 
was  a  charity  affair,  but  after  the  price  of  the  ball- 
room, and  of  the  elaborate  decorations,  and  of  the 
supper,  and  of  the  latest  thing  in  bands  had  been  de- 
ducted from  the  receipts,  the  Indigent  Orphans 
might  well  have  been  justified  in  feeling  that  charity 
in  connection  with  a  social  affair  of  this  nature  was 
more  of  an  excuse  than  of  a  cause.  But  then,  of 
course,  the  Indigent  Orphans  knew  nothing  about  it; 
they  had  never  been  expected  to  know  anything 
about  it,  and  the  dance  succeeded  or  failed  quite  irre- 
spective of  whether  there  were  any  orphans  in  the 

58 


THE  FANCY  DRESS  BALL  59 

Home  or  not.  The  ball  had  become  a  social  fixture, 
dear  to  our  best  people  —  and  to  the  undergraduates 
of  Harvard  University,  who  comprised  the  male 
dancing  population  of  Boston.  It  was  dear  to  our 
best  people  as  all  fixtures  are  dear;  to  the  under- 
graduates it  represented  the  admittance  at  three  dol- 
lars a  head  to  as  much  refreshment  as  was  bad  for 
them.  As  for  the  debutantes,  they  held  it  no  sin  to 
attend  six  dances  and  dinners  in  one  week,  provided 
one  of  them  was  for  charity.  And  then  for  one  and 
all  it  was  such  glorious  fun  to  walk  about  in  costume ! 
What  if  the  charity  part  did  get  lost  in  the  shuffle? 
The  evening  was  still  amusing  and  magnificent,  giv- 
ing that  great  body  of  women  who  depend  on  the 
society  columns  of  the  dailies  for  their  information 
on  life  topics,  something  to  think  about,  and  furnish- 
ing the  Indigent  Orphans  pecuniary  relief  which,  if 
not  too  large,  was  yet  not  to  be  scorned. 

Motors  and  carriages  thronged  about  the  great 
hotel.  Defiant  of  the  cold,  the  social  world  was  out 
in  force,  and  the  biting  air  lived  with  the  cries  of  in- 
furiated cabmen  and  the  insistent  racking  of  electric 
horns.  As  the  guests  streamed  under  the  broad 
awning,  spread  from  the  hotel  to  the  street,  the  wind 
whisked  and  fluttered  their  wraps,  permitting  the 
carriage-caller,  apparently  a  living  bear-skin,  to  catch 
glimpses  now  of  a  harlequin,  now  of  a  cardinal,  now 
of  a  fairy. 

The  interior  of  the  Copley  Plaza  was  a  pande- 
monium of  light  and  music.  As  the  dancers  flut- 
tered past  to  the  ball-room,  a  crush  of  people  craned 
their  necks  and  stared.  These  were  the  hotel  guests, 
the  uninvited,  the  dwellers  in  the  limbo  of  bour- 
geoisie. Poor  unfortunates!  Even  the  most  unat- 
tractive Jewish  widow  of  their  number  would  have 


60  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

bartered  her  immortal  soul,  nay,  even  her  mortal 
gold,  for  the  entree  of  that  blazing  paradise  of  so- 
ciety. But  it  could  not  be;  and  they  must  dream  and 
envy,  they  must  exchange  amenities  in  their  Hinter- 
land, the  foyer,  and  read  the  details  of  Mrs.  So-and- 
So's  costume  in  the  papers  of  all  the  world. 

The  ball-room  streamed  with  a  wild  profusion  of 
ribbons  and  rosettes,  flaunting  from  the  massive 
chandeliers  and  hiding  the  upstairs  boxes.  Behind 
a  mass  of  shrubbery  in  Italian  pots  blared  a  cele- 
brated New  York  band,  sixty  musicians  thumping, 
shouting,  squeaking,  swaying,  employing  every 
known  device,  musical  or  otherwise,  to  prove  the  in- 
vincible modernity  of  their  art.  Whether  it  was 
music  or  cacophony  which  penetrated  their  leafy 
screen,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  it,  loud,  sweeping, 
infectious,  the  bewildering  perfume  and  flashy  sup- 
pliance  of  a  minute.  Above  all  arose  a  ceaseless 
babel  of  voices,  as  bewildering  to  the  ear  as  the  cos- 
tumes, which  displayed  every  known  combination  of 
colour  and  design,  were  to  the  eye.  Even  a  frenzied 
Cubist  might  have  hesitated  to  place  his  impression 
of  so  inextricable  a  mixture  of  colour,  sound,  and 
motion  on  hitherto  undaunted  canvas.  For  all  the 
world  the  five  hundred  revolving  figures  resembled 
an  enormous  crazy  quilt  in  the  act  of  violent  peram- 
bulation. Here  a  Watteau  shepherdess  nestled  in 
the  arms  of  Ivan  the  Terrible;  there  Cato  the 
Censor  attempted  the  fox-trot  with  Catherine  de 
Medici;  you  might  have  seen  a  Cardinal  waltzing 
with  Mme.  du  Barry,  and  Florence  Nightingale  in 
the  arms  of  Abdul  Hamid. 

Above  the  whirling,  swaying,  laughing  dancers  the 
staid,  older  ladies,  whom  the  influx  of  modern  steps 
had  not  swept  onto  the  dancing  floor,  sat  in  their 


THE  FANCY  DRESS  BALL  61 

festooned  boxes  like  minor  Olympians,  passing  judg- 
ment behind  their  jewelled  lorgnettes  and  breathing 
deeply  under  the  weight  of  great  ropes  of  pearls. 
Even  they  were  in  fancy  dress:  age  hath  no  ter- 
rors for  a  woman  costumed.  While  they  formed 
in  the  front  line  of  the  boxes  a  dazzling  array  of 
Queen  Elizabeths,  Fairy  Queens,  queens  of  all  de- 
nominations, their  heavy  and  dignified  husbands 
yawned  away  the  evening  behind  their  backs  in  talk- 
ing over  the  latest  bonmot  at  the  Sarcophagus  Club. 
From  their  aerial  vantage  these  sexagenarian  in- 
quisitresses  promulgated  the  autos-da-fe  of  society. 
If  Mrs.  Lavalle  as  a  nymph  was  hardly  decent,  they 
had  realised  it  long  before  the  whisper  buzzed  about 
the  ball-room;  if  Mr.  Morton's  dancing  was  too 
good  to  be  proper,  they  were  the  first  to  take  excep- 
tion to  it.  When  young  Harry  Francis  tumbled 
down  the  stairs  from  the  champagne  punch,  it  was 
quite  useless  for  him  to  look  about  for  the  person 
who  had  tripped  him.  The  dog-collared  Junos  had 
known  his  father  years  ago;  when  the  wind  was  in 
that  quarter,  they  could  tell  falling  from  being 
tripped.  Their  keen  old  eyes  twinkled  over  Joseph 
Quincy,  dancing  only  with  debutantes,  ferreted  out  at 
least  two  engagements,  and  were  perhaps  the  only 
eyes  —  for  the  dancers  were  too  busy  dancing  and 
babbling  to  observe  anything  —  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  Sir  Galahad  quitting  the  confusion  of  the  great 
hall  on  the  arm  of  Christopher  Columbus. 

"  Now  be  true  to  your  name,"  Sir  Galahad  was 
saying  "  and  discover  some  place  where  it  is  quiet. 
The  noise  is  deafening  here." 

Cary  led  Rosalind  to  a  little  room  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  dancing.  The  perfume,  the  heat,  the 
novelty  of  the  night  aroused  his  dusty  emotions,  and 


62  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

his  heart  stretched  within  him  like  an  awakening 
Titan.  As  they  sat  upon  a  sofa,  the  music  came  dis- 
tantly to  them,  confused  with  the  hum  of  voices. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  came.  I  think  I've  never  seen 
you  at  a  dance  before." 

"  I  have  not  been  since  I  left  college." 

"No?" 

"  Eight  years.  Do  you  wonder  now  I  could  not 
dance?" 

"  Hardly.  But  you  could  learn.  You  dance  as 
well  as  Uncle  Jo-Jo  now."  Rosalind  laughed  mer- 
rily. "  He  thinks  he  dances  beautifully,  so  never 
tell  him  what  I  said.  He  must  be  a  trial  to  the 
young  girls,  for  he  persists  in  believing  that  he  is  as 
young  as  he  feels,  and  scorns  any  one  who  has  been 
out  more  than  a  year.  Even  I  am  passe!  " 

"  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him.  He  ought  to  look 
very  fierce  in  that  Turkish  costume,  but  somehow  he 
doesn't." 

"  I'll  warrant  he  spent  as  much  time  over  it  as 
any  lady  here  spent  over  hers.  Where  did  you  pick 
up  Columbus?  It  suits  you." 

"  Mrs.  Curtis  chose  it  for  me." 

;'  I  made  this  costume  myself,"  said  Rosalind  with 
pride.  "  It  was  a  piece  work  putting  these  alumi- 
num rings  together  for  the  chain  mail,  I  tell  you,  but 
its  use  has  warranted  the  labour.  Almost  all  my 
friends  have  worn  it  at  one  time  or  another." 

She  stood  up  and  turned  about  before  him,  the 
tunic  of  chain  mail  swinging  and  chinking  at  her 
knees.  Scarlet  stockings  and  slippers  and  a  splash 
of  scarlet  at  the  neck,  which  made  a  flaming  harmony 
with  the  honey-gold  of  her  hair,  completed  the  cos- 
tume. 


THE  FANCY  DRESS  BALL  63 

"  You  made  it  yourself?  Why!  It  —  it's  won- 
derful !  " 

"  You  find  new  capabilities  in  girls  all  the  time, 
don't  you?  "  Rosalind  laughed  up  at  him. 

"  It's  —  it's  the  most  beautiful  costume  here !  " 
said  Gary  stoutly. 

"  That  can  hardly  be  true,  but  it's  nice  of  you  to 
say  so." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  Tell  me,  Mr.  Gary,  how  did  you  happen  to 
come  to  a  dance  after  eight  years  of  monastic  life?  " 

Gary  was  captivated  by  the  innocence  of  the  ques- 
tion. How  should  he  know  that  the  rosy  fingers  of 
the  graceful  hand  on  which  his  eyes  rested  were 
twisting  him  round  and  round?  Lacking  both  cour- 
age to  be  bold  and  tongue  to  be  adroit,  he  stammered 
in  reply. 

"  I  came  —  er  —  because  your  letter  —  you  know 
you  said  that  you  would  see  me  here." 

"  It's  like  a  moral  version  of  Thais !  "  cried  Rosa- 
lind merrily.  "  Athanael,  I  apologise  for  tempting 
you  to  quit  your  monastery.  How  do  you  like  Alex- 
andria? " 

Gary  could  not  banter;  neither  could  he  follow 
happily  that  feminine  celerity  of  mind  which  finds  in 
everything  in  life  parallels  and  analogues  to  make 
merry  over.  It  was  bewildering  to  drag  Thais  and 
whatever  name  she  had  applied  to  him  into  an  ordi- 
nary conversation. 

"  I'm  glad  I  came,"  he  said  bluntly. 

"  Do  you  think  our  city  wicked  ?  Do  you  still 
scorn  these  maidens  who  dance  and  dress,  dress  and 
dance  ?  Are  their  heads  empty,  their  tongues  — " 

"Oh,  please!" 


64  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  Well!  I've  forgotten  that.  And  I'm  glad  you 
came.  It's  been  the  best  part  of  the  dance  by  far. 
Look !  There  goes  Uncle  Jo-Jo  —  with  a  debu- 
tante, of  course!  " 

Gary  did  not  see  them.  The  words  which  came  so 
easily  from  Rosalind's  tongue  had  made  his  heart 
suddenly  warm  within  him. 

"How  are  you  going  to  do  it?"  he  asked  in- 
genuously. 

"  What?  "  As  Rosalind  turned  her  wide-opened, 
blue  eyes  toward  him,  he  lost  courage. 

"  Why  in  your  letter,  you  know,  you  also  said  that 
you  —  that  you  were  — " 

"Oh!  Going  to  thank  you  for  your  present? 
How  thoughtless  of  me!  I  think  it  was  awfully 
kind  of  you  to  send  them.  You  may  be  sure  I  ap- 
preciated them  tremendously.  Of  all  my  Christmas 
flowers  they  were  the  nicest,  because  — " 

Gary  waited  in  pleasurable  suspense. 

"  Oh,  because  I  knew  you  wanted  to  send  them. 
Phil  and  Bobby  feel  they  have  to." 

Gary  smiled  in  such  content  that  the  conscious- 
ness of  green  tights  and  mediaeval  slippers  was 
drowned  in  its  profundity. 

"  I  like  Alexandria,"  he  murmured. 

"  You're  on  the  downward  path  now  for  sure  I  " 
Rosalind  laughed.  "  Beware  of  all  young  Alexan- 
drians who  say  you  look  handsome  in  that  costume !  " 

"  I  shall  be  deaf." 

"  Right!  When  it  comes  to  ladies'  compliments, 
Mr.  Gary,  let  me  advise  you.  Be  like  marble  to  re- 
ceive and  wax  to  retain,  and  you'll  live  happily  ever 
after." 

A  harlequin,  chequered  in  green  and  white,  ap- 
peared at  the  door. 


THE  FANCY  DRESS  BALL  65 

"  Is  it  time  for  supper,  Freddy?  " 

"  Time !  "  The  deep  brown  eyes  of  the  new- 
comer, tall  and  graceful  in  his  tight-fitting  costume, 
sparkled  with  reproof.  "  Aren't  you  the  needle  in 
the  haystack,  though,  hiding  out  here !  I  should  say 
it  was  time." 

Gary  developed  a  sudden  dislike  for  the  ease  and 
manner  of  this  young  senior  at  Harvard,  and  as  he 
arose  stiffly,  a  conscious  feeling  that  his  tights  bagged 
at  the  knee  possessed  him. 

"  I  must  go,  Mr.  Gary,"  smiled  Rosalind,  "  or 
have  my  head  bitten  off.  Good-bye." 

They  ran  from  the  room,  Rosalind  protesting,  the 
harlequin  indignant,  fluttering  away  like  moths  to 
the  ball-room  for  a  last  dance  before  the  supper. 
Fascinated  by  the  lightness  of  their  youth,  yet  an- 
noyed that  Rosalind  so  soon  disappear  with  another 
man,  Gary  followed  at  a  distance,  and  later  caught  a 
glimpse  of  them  gracefully  threading  their  way 
through  the  confused  crowd  in  the  ball-room.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  regretted  his  inability  to 
dance. 

As  he  stood  by  the  doorway,  gazing  moodily  in  at 
the  whirling  figures,  he  felt  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Why  —  is  it?  God  bless  my  soul,  it  is !  Gary, 
how  are  you?  " 

Under  the  fierce  black  moustachios  and  jewelled 
turban  of  a  Bashi-Bazouk  lurked  Mr.  Quincy. 

"  Quite  lost,  sir,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Don't  blame  you   a  bit !     Not   a  bit !     I   tell 
you,  Gary,  it  wasn't  like  this  when  Tony  Singleton 
ran  things,   eh?     He   knew  who  was  who.     Sara 
Curtis  aliter  visum,  eh?  " 
'  They  must  all  be  here." 

"  Impossible  to  dance,  quite !     I  can  hardly  get 


66  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

started."  Mr.  Quincy  took  a  comprehensive  survey 
of  the  ball-room.  "  Look  at  the  old  girls  in  the 
boxes,  will  you?"  he  cried  irreverently.  "Aren't 
they  enjoying  it?  I  wonder  whose  reputation  is 
going  now?  Thank  the  Lord,  I  have  none.  Ha- 
ha  !  It's  a  singular  thing,  Gary,  how  few  old-fash- 
ioned low  necks  one  sees  to-day." 

"  Is  it?  "     Gary  could  not  help  smiling. 

"I  assure  you.  Look  at  the  boxes;  not  a 
one!" 

Mrs.  Lavalle  flashed  by,  a  nymph  in  everything 
but  divinity  of  birth. 

"  Not  even  this  Grecian  goddess?  " 

"  You  have  me  there.  But  then  she's  young,  you 
know,  and  has  a  lovely  neck !  It's  quite  right,  quite 
the  compensation  of  nature.  To  age,  the  dog- 
collar  ;  to  youth  —  Joe  Quincy !  " 

He  was  off  down  the  ball-room  after  Mrs.  La- 
valle, with  his  Turkish  trousers  fluttering  behind  his 
short  legs,  leaving  the  younger  man  to  affirm  his 
sartorial  dictum.  As  Gary's  glance  half-amusedly, 
half-idly  traversed  the  boxes  again,  it  fell  upon  a 
magnificent  black  lace  crinoline,  framed  in  the  flut- 
tering decorations.  An  arresting  and  fascinating 
sight,  this  old  lace,  this  white  hair,  these  magnificent 
pearls,  this  beauty  of  middle  age  which  was  still 
young;  Gary  thought  it  the  most  exceptional  thing  in 
the  room.  It  gave  him  a  peculiar  thrill  of  pleasure 
to  know  that  this  beautiful  figure  was  the  mother  of 
the  girl  whom  he  admired  so  much. 

Mrs.  Copley  was  a  sensible  woman.  As  well  as 
any  person  in  Boston  she  was  aware  of  her  beauty, 
of  her  seemingly  perpetual  youthfulness ;  better  than 
any  one,  she  knew  that  it  must  never  be  jeopardised 
on  the  dancing  floor.  There  is  not  a  woman  living 


THE  FANCY  DRESS  BALL  67 

over  forty-five  who  can  dance  and  be  exquisite  at  the 
same  time ;  a  nebula  of  youth  may  sparkle  about  her, 
yet  age  is  in  her  sinews.  To  be  content  to  watch  is 
but  to  realise  the  price  of  dancing.  Therefore  Mrs. 
Copley  held  her  court  in  peacefulness,  and  viewed 
with  interested  eyes  the  heat  and  kaleidoscopic  mo- 
tion below.  In  an  idle  moment  she  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Cary,  solitary  and  silent  amidst  the  excitement, 
and  their  eyes  meeting,  made  him  a  little  sign  to  come 
and  sit  beside  her.  For  all  her  beauty  she  was  a 
doting,  thoughtful  mother.  As  Cary  moved  slowly 
through  the  crowd  toward  her  elevated  box,  she  re- 
membered the  perturbation  of  her  daughter  over 
his  flowers  and  attention,  and  hoped  to  discourage 
his  incipient  emotion. 

"  It  cannot  be,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "  that  he 
is  in  love  yet,  but  then  these  steady,  quiet  fellows 
are  impossible  to  diagnose.  They  boil  away  inside 
like  JEtna.  and  then  explode.  If  he  does  fall  in  love 
and  Rose  does  not  care  for  him  —  well,  we'll  see !  " 
Then  aloud:  "Won't  you  sit  beside  me  and  talk, 
Mr.  Cary?  You  didn't  seem  to  be  dancing,  and 
I'm  so  bored  with  myself  up  here.  They've  gone 
and  left  me  alone." 

Cary  sat  down  in  a  state  of  pleasant  confusion. 

"  No,  I  —  I  don't  dance,"  he  said.  "  Not  at 
all." 

"  Neither  do  I.  It's  more  pleasant  sitting  out, 
isn't  it?" 

Cary  turned  red. 
'  Your  daughter  and  I  — " 

"  I  saw  you.  Rose  is  an  inveterate  sitter  out." 
Seeing  that  the  little  barb  on  this  remark  made  no 
impression,  she  added,  "  She's  out  with  Frederic 
Hoyt  now.  Do  you  know  him?  " 


68  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  No.  She  —  she  told  me  he  had  her  for  sup- 
per." 

"  My  husband  and  I  like  him  so  much.  He's  just 
Rosalind's  age  —  a  senior  at  Harvard  —  and  be- 
tween ourselves,  Mr.  Gary,  I  think  Rose  fancies  him. 
Of  course,  up  here  I  can  keep  a  careful  watch  on 
her !  "  She  paused  to  observe  the  curative  effect  of 
her  remarks  on  Gary,  but  finding  his  silence  in- 
scrutable renewed  the  treatment  from  another  quar- 
ter. "  How  do  you  like  Rose's  costume?  " 

"  Perfect,  Mrs.  Copley !  There  is  nothing  like  it 
here!" 

"  And  mine?  "     She  made  a  wry  face. 

"  You  see  how  clumsy  I  am !  But  then  yours  is 
different,  you  know." 

"  All  the  difference  between  Sir  Galahad  and  Mrs. 
John  Quincy  Adams !  " 

"  But  you  saw  how  I  was  gaping  at  you?  " 

"  An  open  mouth  is  the  subtlest  flattery !  Look  I 
There  are  Rose  and  Freddy  now.  Such  a  handsome 
boy!  He  and  Rose  do  look  well  together,  don't 
you  think  so?  " 

In  Gary's  laconic  monosyllable  there  was  to  a 
woman,  and  especially  to  a  mother,  all  the  evidence 
necessary  for  conviction.  Mrs.  Copley  went  off  to 
supper  on  her  husband's  arm  firmly  convinced  that 
her  cure  had  been  a  failure. 

Left  alone  in  the  box,  Gary  pushed  his  seat  back 
into  a  corner.  To  go  to  the  supper-room  never  oc- 
curred to  his  perplexed  brain;  he  wished  to  be  quiet 
and  think  in  the  rush  of  cool  air  which  swept  through 
the  French  doors,  cleansing  and  purifying  the  heavy 
silence  of  the  emptied  ball-room.  After  the  inces- 
sant blaring  of  the  band,  the  cool  calmness  was  wel- 
come. A  problem  perplexed  him,  more  intricate  and 


THE  FANCY  DRESS  BALL  69 

difficult  than  those  met  with  in  his  law  practice  or 
on  his  building  committee,  a  problem  intangible  and 
uncertain,  of  shadowy  outlines,  a  problem  projecting 
the  mind  far  out  into  impossible  spaces.  Gary  was 
too  normal  to  be  introspective,  but  at  the  same  time 
too  sensible  not  to  face  an  examination  and  explana- 
tion of  his  state  of  mind.  What  were  the  simple 
facts?  A  judicial  examination  of  his  feelings  re- 
sulted in  the  finding  that  while  a  month  ago  he  had 
been  a  sober,  equable  young  man,  devoted  to  his 
practice,  to  his  investigations,  and  to  such  other 
activities  as  befitted  a  sober,  equable  life,  he  now 
found  himself  monstrously  concerned,  even  unhappy, 
simply  because  a  girl  whom  he  scarcely  knew  was  very 
intimate  with  a  boy  whom  he  had  never  heard  of  be- 
fore. Gary  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  indig- 
nantly. Brought  down  to  reason,  the  whole  thing 
was  so  frankly  ridiculous!  Why  should  these  peo- 
ple or  their  actions,  their  likes  or  dislikes,  concern 
him  ?  Were  they  a  part  of  his  universe  ?  He  sum- 
marised the  late  inconsistencies  of  his  life:  he  had 
called  on  a  girl,  sent  her  flowers  for  Christmas, 
and  had  attended  a  costume  ball  as  Christopher 
Columbus!  Evidently  it  was  a  question  of  what 
constitutes  one's  universe !  Gary  smiled  a  wry 
smile,  because  he  did  not  understand;  he  did  not 
know  that  earth  and  water,  the  dust  and  dryness  of 
mundane  life,  are  not  sufficient  materials  with  which 
to  compose  a  universe,  that  without  air  and  fire,  the 
nobler  elements  of  nobler  life,  our  individual  planet 
becomes  a  dead,  cold  star. 

What  should  he  do?  He  sought  to  devise  some 
plan,  to  plant  ?.  rallying  flag;  surely  there  must  be 
some  method  of  destroying  this  uneasiness  of  mind. 
He  arose  and  walked  slowly  down  the  corridor. 


70  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

Could  he  forget?  Could  he  leave  the  hotel  now  and 
wholly  extirpate  the  memory  of  Rosalind?  Why 
not?  Heretofore  determination  had  been  his  fiery 
sword;  his  will-power,  like  the  pottage  of  the  Ben- 
jamin in  Genesis,  had  been  five  times  as  much  as  that 
of  others.  If  he  had  set  his  mind  to  do  anything, 
that  thing  was  as  good  as  done.  Determination  had 
beaten  down  all  opposition;  it  had  succeeded  against 
every  adversity.  Why  should  not  this  will  he  prided 
in  serve  him  here?  A  sudden  disgust  for  his  own 
weakness  possessing  him,  his  face  assumed  an  un- 
conscious look  of  aggression;  like  a  minor  Bismarck, 
he  determined  to  destroy  ruthlessly  and  absolutely 
this  uneasy  and  alarming  tenderness.  He  was  not 
ready  yet;  his  schedule  of  life  could  not  at  this  time 
permit  the  blossoming  of  love.  I  have  the  will,  he 
murmured,  as  he  moved  down  the  stairs,  I  shall  have 
the  way,  too.  But  in  some  matters  Cary  was  twenty- 
eight  years  young.  He  was  unaware  that  he  was 
now  dealing  with  an  obstacle  entirely  novel  in  its 
nature,  with  an  adversary  stronger  than  a  Yale  crew, 
wilier  than  a  crooked  politician,  and  sharper  than 
both  Dodson  and  Fogg;  he  was  wholly  ignorant  that 
to  step  in  even  so  short  a  way  was  to  make  returning 
more  tedious  than  going  o'er. 

On  his  way  to  the  coat-room  he  became  involved 
in  the  general  exodus  from  supper,  which  choked  the 
corridor  with  laughing  people  and  rendered  progress 
impossible.  Suddenly  he  was  aware  that  Rosalind 
and  her  partner  were  almost  at  his  elbow.  .  Fearful 
lest  he  be  seen,  he  stepped  back  against  the  wall  in 
breathless  suspense.  Yet  when  she  had  passed  close 
by  him,  laughing  up  at  Freddy  Hoyt's  dark  eyes,  he 
felt  disappointed  and  hurt  that  she  had  not  noticed 
him,  and  wished  to  hear  her  voice  again.  He  even 


THE  FANCY  DRESS  BALL  71 

ran  a  few  feet  after  them  in  a  spirit  of  boldness, 
thinking  to  speak  to  her,  but  lost  courage  when  he 
realised  that  he  had  nothing  to  say.  In  a  moment 
the  swirling  crowd  swallowed  up  the  graceful  Sir 
Galahad  and  her  clean-limbed,  dark-eyed  harlequin. 
Turning  on  his  heel,  Gary  stalked  angrily  away  to 
the  coat-room;  he  had  entirely  forgotten  his  fiery 
sword  of  determination. 


CHAPTER  VII 

OUT   OF   THE    FRYING-PAN 

THE  library  windows  at  the  back  of  8  Louis- 
burg  Square  commanded  a  view  of  the  Basin 
very  dear  to  Rosalind.  In  her  childhood  she 
had  learned  to  love  the  little  room  upstairs,  where 
during  many  a  shadowy  twilight  she  had  heard  her 
godfather  tell  stories  of  their  ancestors'  sea-cap- 
tains, grizzled  old  fellows  who  came  to  the  high 
Square  with  spyglasses  in  an  endeavour  to  catch 
sight  of  some  expected  ship.  There  was  a  romance 
in  the  outlook  foreign  to  America.  When  the  sun 
had  dipped  from  the  winter  sky,  the  roof  of  the 
houses  lower  on  Beacon  Hill  formed  a  gigantic  stair- 
way from  the  frozen  river,  which  stretched  like 
gleaming  silver  far  below  them,  to  the  very  win- 
dows where  they  sat.  Here  the  curious  mysteries 
of  childhood  had  unrolled  themselves;  here  still  she 
and  her  godfather  often  watched  the  vesperal  dark- 
ness creep  over  the  city. 

"  But  you  haven't  seen  him  since  he  was  a  little 
boy,  Uncle  Sing-Sing.  It's  not  fair  to  judge  him 
so  harshly.  I'm  sure  after  all  Dr.  Gary  has  done 
you  might  at  least  give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt." 

;'  It's  not  that,  dear." 

'  Well,  never  fear  for  me !  I'm  well  protected 
now,  for  Mamma  has  taken  up  the  cudgels  against 
poor  Gary,  too.  She  told  me  that  they  sat  out  to- 
gether —  you  see  it's  in  the  family !  —  and  that  for 

72 


Rosalind 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN  73 

my  sake  she  informed  him  that  Freddy  Hoyt  and 
I  were  the  next  thing  to  married.  It  made  him 
furious.  I  should  think  it  might  have!  Between 
Mamma  and  myself  the  poor  man  won't  know 
which  way  to  jump."  Rosalind  paused  a  moment. 
"  He's  so  clean  and  stern,  Uncle  Sing-Sing,  so  very 
manly  and  strong!  Papa  says  that  he's  wonder- 
fully successful,  that  he  has  never  failed  in  an  un- 
dertaking. I  can't  help  admiring  him  —  no  girl 
in  America  could.  I  guess  it's  in  us  to  like  big,  free 
men  who  look  as  if  they  could  move  mountains  for 
a  pastime.  But  say  you  won't  worry  any  more ! 
I'm  not  in  love  with  — " 

"  Not  yet,"  the  invalid  interrupted. 

Rosalind  looked  thoughtfully  out  over  the  river. 

"  N-o-o.  I  don't  think  I  ever  could  be  with  him 
—  really  in  love,  I  mean.  Some  people  strike  you 
that  way;  they  may  be  the  admiration  of  all  the 
world,  but  when  it  comes  to  loving  them,  they're  too 
great  or  too  good  or  too  strong  for  our  poor  mortal 
hearts."  She  laughed.  "  It's  cold-blooded  enough, 
Uncle  Sing-Sing,  the  way  you  and  I  go  about  a 
thing;  it  seems  like  one  person  reasoning  out  loud, 
doesn't  it?" 

"  It  is."     The  invalid  appeared  amused. 

"  That's  better !  I  almost  coaxed  out  a  smile 
that  time!  Do  please  take  Ben  like  any  of  my 
other  friends.  To  have  one  more  doesn't  decrease 
my  love  of  you,  dear;  it  merely  leaves  less  for  them 
to  share.  You  aren't  jealous  of  Billy  or  Phil  or 
Freddy?" 

"  No." 

"  I  am  fond  of  them,  though;  I  love  them  as  I 
do  anything  that  I'm  accustomed  to,  that  is  always 
pleasant  and  kind  to  me;  but  they  aren't  the  real 


74  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

thing  yet,  and  Gary  is.  He  may  not  be  fluent  like 
Freddy  or  amusing  like  Billy,  but  you  feel  a  superi- 
ority in  his  very  hesitancy  to  speak.  And  he's  very 
appreciative,  which  a  girl  loves.  If  you  could  have 
heard  him  admire  my  Sir  Galahad  costume  —  Pa- 
quin  might  have  made  it!  He  went  away  before 
I  could  see  him  again,  though  I  looked  everywhere. 
I  suppose  it  was  Mamma's  kindness  that  killed  him." 

"  Mr.  Quincy  is  coming  upstairs,  sir." 

No  sooner  had  Edouard  got  the  words  fairly  out 
of  his  mouth  than  the  little  man  bustled  into  the 
room. 

"By  gad,  Rose!  Sweetheart!"  (patting  her 
hand  and  kissing  her).  "  Tony,  my  boy,  good  eve- 
ning. Have  I  seen  you  since  the  ball,  Rose?  You 
were  lovely,  divine,  exquisite !  " 

"  You  debutante-killer !  You  don't  get  off  that 
way;  you  know  you  wouldn't  look  at  me  you  were 
so  busy  with  the  children !  " 

"  On  the  contrary,"  Mr.  Quincy  replied  loftily, 
"  you  seemed  so  busy  with  Gary  that  I  —  well,  you 
know!  Old  boy  keeps  in  the  background  while  the 
mice  are  playing.  Shows  the  terrible  effect  of  that 
letter  you  wrote  to  Gary.  He  never  would  have 
thought  of  the  ball  but  for  that,  never  in  a  dozen 
years.  Tony,  my  boy,  keep  your  weather  eye  out. 
You  remember  what  Shakespeare  said?  '  It's  a  wise 
father  that  knows  his  own  godchild !  '  Ah,  Rose, 
my  love?  " 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Uncle  Jo-Jo !  You're  worse 
than  Mamma !  " 

"  All  right,  my  love.  Silence  is  golden.  No  one 
shall  have  an  inkling  of  the  news  until  you  give  the 
signal.  Only  tell  me  early  —  by  Gad !  "  Mr. 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN  75 

Quincy's  animated  face  in  a  twinkling  became  grave 
and  serious. 

"  What's  happened  now?  " 

"  The  sight  of  you,  Rose,  completely  put  out  of 
my  head  what  I'd  come  to  tell  Tony.  Have  you 
seen  the  Transcript  to-night  ?  " 

The  invalid  shook  his  head. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  myself  so  that  it  might  not 
be  too  much  of  a  surprise.  An  old,  old  friend  of 
ours  is  dead." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Mr.  Singleton 
Singleton  leaned  forward  a  little  and  stared  atten- 
tively at  Mr.  Quincy. 

"  Some  one  we  knew  in  Paris." 

"Paris?"     The  invalid's  lips  framed  the  word. 

"  Some  one  you  were  very  fond  of.     She  — " 

"  Marie?  " 

Mr.  Quincy  nodded. 

"Who,  Uncle  Jo- Jo?"  demanded  Rosalind  curi- 
ously. She  had  turned  her  eyes  to  Mr.  Quincy, 
and  did  not  see  her  godfather  lean  back  in  the  dark- 
ness of  his  cushions,  a  trifle  paler  and  colder  than 
before. 

"  Marie  de  Nemours.  You  must  have  heard  us 
speak  of  her  in  the  past.  We  knew  her  when  we 
were  at  the  Beaux  Arts;  in  fact,  I  introduced  Tony 
to  her  there.  Later  she  married  Rolland.  You 
know,  the  great  tenor." 

"  I  remember  the  name." 

Mr.  Quincy  looked  meditatively  at  his  boots  and 
sighed  a  long,  melancholy  sigh. 

"Ah,  well!  Poor,  dear  creature!  To  think 
that  she  should  die,  Tony;  you  used  to  say,  I 
remember,  that  she  could  not  grow  old.  Even 


76  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

your  mother  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  her,  Rose." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  filling  the  dark  room 
with  meditative  pathos.  Touching  gently  her  god- 
father's hand,  Rosalind  found  it  listless. 

"  I'm  sorry,  dear,"  she  murmured. 

"  So  am  I,  Tony.  I  was  sure  you'd  want  to  know. 
Ah,  well!  There's  the  first  star.  I  must  be  off!  " 

"  Shall  I  go,  too,  Uncle  Sing-Sing?  " 

The  old  mati  nodded  slowly.      '  To-morrow." 

"  Yes,  dear,  surely." 

Half-way  down  the  stairs  with  her  uncle,  she 
thought  she  heard  her  name  called. 

"  You  go  on  down,  Uncle  Jo-Jo ;  I'll  follow  you 
directly." 

She  hurried  back  to  the  library. 

'l  Did  you  call  me?" 

"  Miniature  in  my  desk.     Bring  it  here." 

In  his  hand  her  godfather  held  a  gold  key  which 
Rosalind  took,  and  carried  to  his  bedroom.  There 
she  found  the  miniature,  gold  with  a  circle  of  pearls 
around  the  painting,  lying  face-down  on  the  top  of 
a  pile  of  letters  in  a  drawer.  On  the  back  an  in- 
scription in  a  feminine  hand  inevitably  struck  her 
eye.  Though  the  ink  had  long  since  faded,  she 
could  readily  make  out  two  names :  Tony  —  Ma- 
rie. Wondering,  she  hurried  to  her  godfather  and 
placed  the  painting  in  his  white  hand. 

"  Look,  Rose." 

As  she  took  the  little  picture  to  the  lingering 
light  at  the  window,  a  murmur  of  admiration  es- 
caped her  lips.  The  lady  of  the  miniature  war- 
ranted all  her  uncle's  praise.  The  dark,  curling 
hair,  the  high  forehead,  the  emerald  green  eyes,  the 
graceful  neck,  the  delicate  fineness  of  the  features, 
these  witnessed  to  an  aristocracy  of  beauty. 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN  77 

"Beautiful?"  The  old  man  spoke  in  a  far-off 
voice. 

"  Exquisite  1  So  beautiful,  that  it  almost  seems 
impossible  that  any  woman  — " 

"  It  is  unworthy  of  her." 

"  Rose !  Rose !  "  Mr.  Quincy's  voice  called  from 
below.  "  Do  you  want  me?  " 

"  Coming,  Uncle  Jo-Jo !  Good-night,  dearest  — 
or  shall  I  stay?  " 

"  No." 

"Thank  you  for  letting  me  see  the  picture;  it 
was  beautiful." 

1  You  and  me." 

"  I  understand  —  no  one  else  shall  know.  Good- 
night, dear." 

Rosalind  ran  lightly  down  the  stairs  to  rejoin  Mr. 
Quincy. 

"  At  last,  Uncle  Jo-Jo!" 

"  One  moment!  Would  you  object  to  exploring 
the  coast  first?  You  know  those  two  harpies,  the 
Hepplethwaites,  live  directly  opposite." 

With  a  merry  laugh  Rosalind  walked  down  the 
front  steps  alone. 

"  All  clear,  Uncle  Jo- Jo." 

His  face  appeared  at  the  crack  of  the  front  door. 

"  Hush,  my  dear,  hush !  No  lights  in  their 
house?  " 

"  None." 

Mr.  Quincy  slammed  the  door,  took  his  niece's 
arm,  and  hurried  up  the  street. 

"  A  little  faster  here,  Rose,  if  you  please.  Just 
till  we  get  out  of  range.  If  you  could  see  the  letters 
they  wrote  me  about  those  Christmas  things !  I  had 
to  burn  them  up  directly.  Think  if  they  ever  found 
out  at  the  Club !  " 


78  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

At  the  comical  expression  on  her  uncle's  face, 
Rosalind  laughed  louder  than  ever. 

"Hard-hearted  girl!  Where  are  your  feelings? 
I  believe  you'd  like  to  see  me  married !  If  so,  your 
joy  will  never  be  consummated.  Marry  for  love  is 
my  maxim!  Never  marry  for  anything  but  love, 
my  dear  Rose,  and  you'll  always  be  in  love.  And 
what  is  that?  Happiness!  Laugh  you  may,  Rose, 
but  if  you  follow  my  advice,  you'll  come  out  right 
in  the  end.  And  now,  good-night,  my  dear;  I'm 
going  to  run  up  to  the  Club  for  dinner." 


Some  days  later  Rosalind  found  herself  seated 
in  the  outer  office  of  the  Mayor  of  Boston.  It  was 
a  large,  unprepossessing  room,  filled  with  large,  un- 
prepossessing chairs,  while  on  the  walls  hung  large 
engravings  of  not  too  prepossessing  gentlemen, 
whom  Rosalind  took  to  be  the  former  incumbents 
of  the  office.  She  was  by  no  means  alone  in  her 
attendance  on  His  Honour's  pleasure.  Several 
flabby  gentlemen  with  gold  rings  and  jewelled  scarf- 
pins,  expressive  of  their  extreme  gentility,  conversed 
earnestly  in  one  corner;  opposite  them  sat  three 
provincial  ladies,  whose  prim,  black  gloves  guarded 
a  petition;  in  the  centre  of  the  room  an  enormous 
man  with  a  mountainous  wen  on  his  nose,  com- 
placently spat  into  a  cuspidor  which  fortune  had 
placed  conveniently  near.  Of  the  others,  a  non- 
descript dozen  were  sprinkled  .about,  lolling  on  the 
ugly  chairs  with  fragments  of  dirty  newspapers  or 
evil-smelling  cigars  in  their  hands,  attempting  with 
the  vanity  of  small  men  to  appear  important  —  an 
undertaking  in  which  they  deceived  no  one,  except 
perhaps  themselves.  Among  this  tawdry  mess  of 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN  79 

humanity,  this  litter  of  the  great  pawnshop,  politics, 
Rosalind  shone  with  contrasting  serenity. 

A  stir  inside  a  small  door,  marked  "  private," 
caused  sudden  silence.  The  Mayor's  secretary 
swung  out  into  view  like  the  toy  bird  of  a  cuckoo- 
clock,  called  an  Irish  name,  and  mechanically  dis- 
appeared. As  one  of  the  nondescripts  moved  im- 
portantly to  answer  the  summons,  Rosalind  heard 
to  her  surprise  Dr.  Gary's  voice  at  her  elbow. 

"  Why,  Rosalind !     What  brings  you  here  ?  " 

"  It's  Brimmer  House,  Doctor.  The  Mayor  once 
promised  to  speak  at  our  fiftieth  anniversay  and  I've 
come  to  hold  him  to  his  word." 

"Fiftieth!     Is  it  that  old?" 

Rosalind  nodded. 

"  I've  been  getting  his  views  on  the  milk  ques- 
tion. Like  all  Irishmen,  you  know;  treat  them  well 
and  they  will  treat  you  well.  I  am  half  convinced 
he's  honest." 

"  Will  you  get  the  bill  through?  " 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  You  have  an  appointment,  I  hope?  "  he  asked, 
glancing  about  the  room. 

"  Not  exactly.  The  Mayor  told  me  that  any 
time  I  dropped  in  he  would  be  delighted  to  see 
me." 

"  Coming  to  America  doesn't  take  all  the  blarney 
out  of  them,  does  it?  It  would  have  been  better 
to  write  him.  This  place  isn't  very  de  rigeur." 

"  I  know;  but  seeing  him  personally  is  the  safest 
way.  He  can't  deny  then." 

'  You've  been  waiting  long?  " 

Rosalind  smiled.  "  Twenty  minutes.  It's  not 
half  bad  with  all  these  curios  here." 

"  Let  me  help." 


8o  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"Oh,  I  couldn't—" 

The  famous  surgeon  strode  off  with  the  carriage 
of  one  who  is  sure  of  himself  and  of  his  welcome. 
As  the  private  door  closed  upon  him,  Rosalind  be- 
came the  cynosure  of  eyes,  and  would  have  found 
the  insistent  scrutiny  of  the  flashy  men  disquieting 
had  he  not  in  a  moment  returned. 

"  I  have  displaced  the  buildings  committee  in  your 
favour,"  he  laughed.  "  The  Mayor  will  give  you 
a  minute." 

Rosalind  thanked  him  gratefully. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  off.  I'm  coming  to  the  Square 
in  a  day  or  so.  How  is  he?  " 

"Not  so  well  just  lately.  I'm  a  little  anxious; 
in  fact,  I  intended  to  telephone  you  to-night." 

"So?"  The  doctor  whipped  out  his  engage- 
ment book  and  fluttered  the  pages.  u  Will  he  be 
in  at  five-twenty  this  afternoon?  I'll  come  then." 

"Hello,  Father!" 

Rosalind  turned  with  a  smile  at  the  voice,  which 
she  recognised  as  Benjamin's. 

"  Ben,  my  boy,  you  here,  too !  I  beg  your  par- 
don, Rosalind.  What?  Do  you  know  each  other 
already?  " 

"  I  should  say  we  did ! "  cried  Rosalind. 
"Hasn't  he  told  you?" 

'  Not  a  word !  "     Dr.  Gary's  face  was  a  picture. 
'  We've  known  each  other  for  several  weeks  — 
and  very  well,  too,  haven't  we,  Mr.  Gary?  " 

'  To  think  that  after  all  these  years  Ben  should 
have  clandestine  relations  with  a  young  lady!  Oh, 
Ben!" 

The  son  flushed  guiltily  as  he  shook  Rosalind's 
hand. 

14  Father,  you're  talking  perfect  rot,  you  know." 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN  81 

Little  Dr.  Gary  patted  his  tall  son  affectionately. 

"  I  realise  that,  Ben,  and  I'm  mighty  glad  of  the 
opportunity.  It's  the  best  thing  you  have  ever 
done." 

"Why  are  you  here?"  asked  Benjamin,  pa- 
tiently ignoring  his  father's  efforts  to  embarrass 
him. 

"  I  came  for  Brimmer  House,  your  father  for 
milk,  and  you  — ?  " 

"  For  my  buildings  committee." 

"  I've  postponed  it.  Beauty  before  business,  you 
know.  I've  got  Flanagan  to  let  Rosalind  come 
first." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it;  we  can  wait." 

"  I  shall  only  take  a  minute.  Your  father's  been 
most  kind." 

"  It's  my  nature,"  humorously  ran  on  the  great 
surgeon.  "  Look  at  Ben:  he's  spoiled,  quite  spoiled 
by  my  kindness.  He  won't  confide  in  his  old  father 
any  more.  That's  gratitude  for  you !  " 

"  Why  did  you  leave  the  dance  so  early,  Mr. 
Gary?  "  asked  Rosalind.  "  I  hoped  we  might  have 
another  talk  together.  It  made  me  feel  guilty  to 
drag  you  there,  as  you  declared  I  did,  just  for  that 
little  time." 

"Never  drag—" 

"  What !  "  interrupted  the  doctor  in  amazement. 
"  Ben  at  a  dance !  Oh,  this  outherods  Herod !  " 

He  seemed  actually  staggered  by  the  news. 

"  I'll  tell  no  more !  "  cried  Rosalind.  "  You  must 
get  it  out  of  him  yourself." 

"  Ossa  on  Pelion !  "  The  doctor  looked  ruefully 
at  his  son.  "  I  can't  bear  it;  the  suddenness  is  too 
much !  Good-bye,  Rosalind.  Good-bye,  you  mar- 
ble-hearted fiend!  " 


82  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

With  a  parting  shake  of  the  head  at  his  son  he 
trotted  off  in  his  characteristic  hurry  at  the  very 
moment  the  private  secretary  announced  Rosalind's 
name. 

"  I  trust  you'll  come  to  tea  some  afternoon,"  she 
said  to  Gary.  "  I  want  your  views  on  the  ball  and 
on  ever  so  many  other  things." 

"  You're  very  kind." 

"  You  shouldn't  make  me  do  all  the  asking;  that's 
not  fair!  " 

Gary  stammered  happily.  "  I  should  l-love  to 
come.  Good-bye,  Miss  Copley,  good-bye!" 

Rosalind  hurried  into  the  private  office,  leaving 
him  in  open-mouthed  bewilderment.  It  was  incon- 
gruous to  feel  sentimental  in  the  outer  office  of  a 
mayor;  yet  sentimental  Gary  indubitably  was,  stand- 
ing where  Rosalind  had  shaken  him  by  the  hand 
and  staring  at  the  door  marked  "  private."  For 
the  first  time  since  the  costume  ball  he  felt  happy. 
Since  that  ill-starred  night  on  which  he  had  rallied 
to  the  standard  of  invincible  will-power  and  deter- 
mination, a  melancholy  disinterestednes  in  his  life 
and  affairs  had  distressed  him.  The  law  seemed 
dry,  the  Club  stupid,  the  newspapers  empty.  The 
more  he  willed  the  sun  to  shine,  the  more  the  east 
wind  blew;  the  more  he  determined  to  extirpate 
Rosalind,  the  more  deeply  planted  the  roots  of  mem- 
ory proved  to  be.  Because  he  was  obstinate  and 
strong,  he  persevered  in  his  attempt,  but  doggedness, 
either  in  winning  or  destroying  love,  is  at  the  best 
a  sorry,  painful  weapon.  Now  to  match  his  great 
unhappiness,  so  small  a  thing  as  this  meeting  with 
its  friendly  words,  its  bright  smile  and  handclasp, 
had  suddenly  transformed  apathy  into  happiness. 
He  stood  astounded  by  the  rapidity  of  the  change. 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN  83 

Even  coming  up  in  the  elevator  he  had  been  moody 
and  disgruntled,  and  now  —  now  even  the  man  with 
the  wen  on  his  nose  seemed  a  cheery  old  soul  and 
the  prints  of  the  ex-mayors  works  of  fascinating 
interest ! 

With  an  amused  movement  of  his  broad  shoulders 
Gary  recalled  the  ratiocinations  which  had  borne 
fruit  in  his  determining  to  forget  Rosalind.  In  his 
present  happiness  he  could  laugh  at  the  failure  of 
his  fiery  sword.  How  hasty  and  ridiculous  had  been 
his  decision!  Yes,  he  had  read  the  stars  wrong, 
very  wrong,  he  told  himself.  Only  to  remember  how 
pleasantly  she  had  asked  him  to  come  to  tea,  to  come 
and  talk  on  many  things,  was  to  confirm  his  inepti- 
tude at  reading  the  stars.  Instead  of  welcoming 
her  divine  intervention,  or  so  he  chose  to  think  of 
it  in  his  present  happiness,  he  had  insisted  on  pur- 
suing a  distasteful  and  unhappy  course.  Poor  blind 
mole  that  he  had  been !  Let  but  God  vouchsafe  him 
sight,  Gary  determined  that  he  would  burrow  no 
longer  in  the  earth!  With  his  hands  deep  in  his 
pockets  he  walked  about  the  unattractive  room  and 
past  the  unattractive  people.  It  was  good  to  see 
things  straight;  it  was  good  to  feel  again  that  in- 
vincible Tightness  of  life  which  for  so  many  years 
had  been  his  keystone  of  existence.  When  he  had 
accompanied  the  rest  of  the  committee  into  the  pri- 
vate office  of  the  Mayor,  he  thought  with  a  thrill 
of  pleasure  that  Rosalind  might  have  occupied  the 
very  chair  in  which  he  himself  was  then  sitting.  In 
such  a  temper  he  could  brook  no  pessimistic  views 
from  his  colleagues. 

The  next  afternoon  —  a  dark,  cheerless  January 
day  it  had  been  for  almost  every  one  except  him- 
self —  he  stopped  at  29  Commonwealth  Avenue  on 


84  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

the  way  home  from  his  office.  It  was  a  bold  step, 
but  Gary  was  no  man  to  be  afraid.  Not  until  he 
was  fairly  abreast  the  bull  did  its  horns  look  sharp 
and  hard  to  grasp;  then  it  was  too  late  for  retreat, 
since  Paris  was  speaking  his  name. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  came !  Mamma,  do  you 
remember  Mr.  Gary?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed.  Has  Rosalind  been  dragging  you 
through  Brimmer  House  again?  " 

"No  —  unfortunately,"  replied  Gary  with  a 
heavy  attempt  at  chivalry. 

"  Much  worse,  Mamma.  We  met  in  a  most  dis- 
reputable place !  " 

"  Oh,  Rose !  How  can  you !  Do  you  wonder 
that  my  hair  is  white,  Mr.  Gary?  Tell  me  the 
worst.  Was  it  the  Charles  Street  Jail?  " 

"  No.     Only  the  Mayor's  office." 

"  Almost  as  bad !" 

"  We  had  Dr.  Gary  for  a  chaperone,  Mamma,  so 
it  was  perfectly  proper !  " 

"  Also  several  ward  politicians  and  an  ex-prize 
fighter." 

"  I  think  your  father  sufficed  without  them,  Mr. 
Gary."  Mrs.  Copley  smiled  as  she  poured  out  his 
tea.  "I'm  so  glad  you  dropped  in;  just  see  how 
lonely  we  are !  Rosalind  was  on  the  point  of  going 
to  see  her  godfather  for  the  third  time  to-day,  she 
found  me  so  boring." 

"  Is  he  worse?  " 

Rosalind  shook  her  head  sadly.  "  I'm  afraid  he's 
really  not  at  all  well.  Your  father  visited  him  yes- 
terday and  even  he  seemed  a  little  depressed." 

;'  I'm  so  sorry." 

"  Mr.  Singleton,  you  know,"  explained  Mrs.  Cop- 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN  85 

ley,  "  is  Rose's  godfather  and  perfectly  adores  her." 

"  My  father  has  told  me." 

"  When  we  were  children,  I  used  to  invite  you 
to  my  birthday  parties  in  the  Square,"  stated  Rosa- 
lind with  an  air  of  mock  reproof. 

"  I  don't  remember.     Are  you  — " 

"  Of  course,  not.     You  never  would  come." 

Gary  endeavoured  to  embody  something  clever 
about  the  ignorance  of  youth  in  his  reply,  but  by 
the  time  the  answer  was  framed  Mrs.  Copley  had 
changed  the  subject. 

"  Guess  what  Rose  has  been  doing  with  her  Italian 
girls  now !  " 

"  Almost  anything  would  be  believable !  " 

"  Last  Saturday  matinee  she  filled  our  box  at  the 
opera  with  them!  " 

"  It  was  *  La  Boheme,'  and  they  loved  it,  Mr. 
Gary  —  ever  so  much  more  than  most  of  the  fat, 
old  — " 

"  Rose !  " 

"  All  right,  Mamma.  But  it  was  wonderful  to  see 
their  eyes  shine  and  the  way  they  sat  forward  in 
their  seats.  As  for  myself,  I  never  enjoyed  '  Bo- 
heme '  half  as  much  before." 

"  By  the   way,   Rose,   we're   dining  at  seven  to- 
night, remember!     Have  you  asked  any  one?     It's 
'  Ai'da,'  you  know." 
'  No,  Mamma." 

"Will  you  come  with  us,  Mr.  Gary?  There's 
only  Rose  and  myself,  and  I  for  one  should  be  de- 
lighted." 

11  Why,  Mrs.  Copley,  I  — " 

"Oh,  do  come!"  urged  Rosalind.  "Have  you 
never  heard  'Ai'da'?  It's  glorious.  Mamma  and 


86  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

I  are  old-fashioned  and  common  enough  to  prefer 
it  to  Debussy  or  Rimsky-Korsakov." 

Had  Rosalind  said  that  she  preferred  Bergson 
to  Santayana  or  Matisse  to  Van  Gogh,  it  could  have 
meant  no  less  to  Gary  than  this  declaration  of  faith. 
Of  these  names  Debussy  perhaps  was  familiar 
though  he  failed  to  associate  him  with  anything  save 
long  hair  and  France.  Gary  knew  that  he  himself 
preferred  Blackstone  to  Kent  and,  for  recreation, 
Dickens  to  Thackeray,  but  when  it  came  to  a  ques- 
tion of  declaring  "  Ai'da  "  a  vaudeville  sketch  or  a 
composer,  he  had  no  opinion  to  offer.  Yet  at  the 
same  time  that  he  wondered  whether  Rimsky-what- 
ever-it-was  ought  to  be  called  he  or  it,  he  liked  to 
hear  the  name  come  trippingly  from  Rosalind's 
tongue.  Like  most  unmusical  men,  his  attitude  to- 
wards feminine  interest  in  art  was  one  of  amused 
tolerance.  And  then  to  be  talked  to  after  this  fash- 
ion made  him  feel  not  unpleasantly  intellectual  him- 
self. Protesting  that  he  had  always  cut  a  poor  fig- 
ure at  opera,  he  accepted.  Indeed,  he  had  been  but 
once  before  in  his  life.  Some  years  past  his  aunt, 
Mrs.  Curtis,  had  inveigled  him  to  a  performance  of 
"  La  Tosca,"  his  only  comment  on  which  had  been 
a  condemnation  of  the  soldiers  in  the  last  act  for 
being  unable  to  keep  step. 

Gary  hurried  home  and  dressed  in  a  state  of  in- 
ward excitement;  to  one  who  had  become  such  a 
stay-at-home  going  to  the  opera  with  a  young  lady 
was  an  occasion.  As  he  shaved,  he  held  an  intimate 
conversation  with  his  lathered  image  in  the  mirror. 
What  a  pass  the  world  had  come  to  with  himself 
attending  the  opera ! 

Before  the  curtain  went  up  he  even  began  to  think 
that  he  might  like  "  Ai'da  "  of  itself,  but  in  that  was 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN  87 

deceived.  The  succession  of  scenes,  the  apparent 
lack  of  romance  in  the  immense  soprano  and  the 
more  immense  tenor,  the  long  airs  which  held  Rosa- 
lind breathless  in  her  seat,  proved  dull  and  stupid 
to  him.  Yet  there  was  imperishable  compensation 
in  sitting  close  behind  Rosalind  and  feeling  a  part 
of  her  small  and  intimate  world.  He  was  glad  and 
vain  that  people  saw  him  sitting  in  the  Copley  box. 
When  the  lights  were  off,  he  endured  the  music  in 
patience,  eyeing  boldly  the  smooth  curve  of  Rosa- 
lind's neck  as  it  stood  out  in  profile  against  the 
brilliant  stage;  between  the  acts  he  listened  quietly 
to  her  eager  enthusiasms  and  indulgently  echoed 
them.  The  odours  of  the  gay  auditorium  drifted 
upwards,  commingling  feminine  fragrances  with  the 
indescribable  pungency  of  white  kid  gloves;  he  felt 
vaguely  the  eyes  of  many  people  fixed  upon  him,  and 
held  himself  proudly  and  well.  Out  of  his  element 
indeed,  but,  like  a  captive  lion  being  fed  kickshaws 
in  a  gilded  cage,  he  found  for  the  moment  both  sweet- 
meats and  prison  altogether  too  delightful  to  be 
roared  at. 

After  the  first  scene  his  attention  to  the  opera 
from  perfunctory  interest  turned  to  neglect,  and  he 
altogether  ignored  the  stage.  Far  nearer  to  him 
than  the  imitation  Nile  with  its  gross  Rhadames 
pouring  out  his  soul  in  meaningless  music  his  eyes 
had  found  a  much  higher  form  of  art  which  they 
could  understand.  Yet  when  the  great  red  curtain 
had  finally  fallen  amidst  a  splendid  burst  from  the 
orchestra  and  a  scattering  applause  from  the  depart- 
ing house,  Gary  would  have  been  the  last  to  deny 
that  the  performance  had  given  exquisite  pleasure. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

INTO    THE    FIRE 

AS  time  went  by  the  acquaintanceship  of  Rosa- 
lind and  Gary  ripened  into  friendship,  and 
from  that  into  intimacy.  Dry  and  practical 
as  he  was,  Gary  soon  learned  to  count  that  day 
lost  which  Rosalind  in  some  way  had  not  brightened. 
To  be  sure,  there  were  very  few  dark  days.  He 
dined  often  at  the  Copley  house;  he  sleighed  with 
Rosalind  at  the  Sherborne  farm;  he  went  with  her 
twice  to  the  Symphony  —  although  it  bored  him  al- 
most to  extinction;  he  even  took  tea  at  8  Louisburg 
Square,  where  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  with  his  usual 
silence  dumbfounded  him.  But  he  was  a  distinct 
success  in  the  family.  He  held  forth  on  farm  im- 
plements and  model  henneries  when  with  Mr.  Cop- 
ley; he  talked  politics  to  Mr.  Quincy,  who  had  as- 
pirations of  an  indefinite,  but  lofty  character;  he 
admired  Rosalind  to  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  and 
to  her  mother;  and  when  with  Rosalind  herself, 
once  his  tongue  freed  from  embarrassment,  there 
was  a  universe  before  him  to  explore.  , 

They  soon,  observed  themselves  alike  in  many 
of  their  tastes  and  distates.  More  serious  than  the 
majority  of  her  companions,  Rosalind  found  a  nat- 
ural kinship  in  Gary's  seriousness.  To  hear  him 
talk  of  his  investigations,  of  the  big  men  he  had 
met  and  of  what  they  had  said  and  done,  was  a 
source  of  unending  interest.  She  admired  his  cease- 


INTO  THE  FIRE  89 

less  activity,  his  simplicity,  and  honesty;  in  his 
straightforward  way  of  coming  right  out  with  a 
thing  there  was  something  clear  and  clean  which 
made  her  keenly  aware  of  the  Tightness  of  his  spirit. 
He  was  so  much  the  man,  this  great,  handsome, 
quiet  lawyer,  and  all  her  other  friends  were  boys. 
Yet  she  never  felt  toward  him  as  she  did  toward 
Philip  Brooks  or  Frederic  Hoyt.  For  them  there 
was  in  her  heart  tenderness,  the  enjoyment  of  sun- 
shine, of  laughter,  of  flowers,  the  gay  response  to 
the  liberty  of  a  child  who  does  not  yet  understand 
the  black  language  of  this  world;  but  for  Gary,  older 
and  stronger  than  herself,  though  she  might  admire 
him  greatly  and  take  deep  pleasure  in  his  company, 
there  was  no  tenderness,  no  sentiment  other  than 
interested  affection.  She  never  associated  him  with 
love.  Without  him,  alone  in  her  room,  or  with 
her  girls  at  Brimmer  House,  she  could  be  perfectly 
contented;  he  was  no  necessity  to  her  happiness. 
Yet,  if  it  had  been  a  question  then  of  parting  with 
him  forever,  she  would  have  found  in  their  separa- 
tion a  most  sincere  sorrow.  To  her  he  was  more 
than  a  friend,  yet  nothing  of  a  lover;  almost  heroic 
in  some  ways,  always  admirable,  and  a  most  en- 
grossing companion.  If  she  afforded  him  more  and 
more  opportunities  for  associating  with  her,  it  was 
in  ignorance  that  she  was  herself  feeding  a  fire  whose 
flames  some  day  might  wax  unbearably  hot. 

In  Gary's  behaviour  there  was  nothing  to  warn 
her  of  the  flooding  tide  of  his  love.  Never  a  talka- 
tive man,  he  had  lived  in  the  belief  that  to  be  doubly 
wise  was  to  obtain  the  opinion  of  another  rather 
than  to  air  that  which  was  one's  own.  Love  made 
him  yet  more  silent.  Like  a  filled  bottle,  the  small 
mouth  of  which,  when  it  is  overturned,  will  permit 


90  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

the  egress  of  not  a  single  drop  of  liquid,  so  Gary 
in  a  company  of  people  could  find  no  words  to  speak 
to  Rosalind.  Few  men  have  suffered  more  the  em- 
barrassments of  love,  because  few  men  have  reached 
so  advanced  an  age  with  such  inexperience.  He  had 
known  nothing  of  girls  before  his  meeting  with 
Rosalind.  Love  was  an  unpathed  wilderness  in 
which  he  soon  lost  his  way,  yet  into  which,  accounting 
his  own  strength  superior  to  all  else,  he  boldly 
plunged  ahead.  But  calculation  and  reasoning  van- 
ished in  the  strange  beauty  of  this  undiscovered 
country;  far  from  being  disproved,  they  were  ig- 
nored, denied  admission  into  a  land  where  behaviour 
is  ruled  by  the  moon  which  makes  men  mad,  and 
life  and  happiness  of  living  abandoned  to  the  un- 
certain favour  of  a  female  heart.  At  first  he  had 
rebelled  at  the  rape  of  his  logic  and  determination, 
for  no  man  likes  to  be  deprived  of  the  only  com- 
passes which  he  has  known;  but  once  resigned,  once 
he  had  abandoned  resistance  he  found  himself  hap- 
pier. There  was  a  light  in  the  wood  after  all.  In 
his  love  he  found  guidance  and  inspiration,  the  in- 
centive to  march  ceaselessly  and  doggedly  till  he 
should  reach  that  light  and  stand  face  to  face  with 
Rosalind.  Originally  employed  in  crushing  out  his 
affection,  his  determination  later  embodied  itself  into 
love  as  omnipresent  as  it  was  profound.  His  life 
no  longer  was  his  own,  nor  could  he  regard  it  as 
such  in  the  fits  of  abstraction  which  possessed  and 
held  him  by  his  office  window.  He  came  to  know 
nothing  save  loving  Rosalind,  and  his  entire,  calm, 
slow  spirit  bent  itself  to  that  love. 

Thus  January  passed  into  February  and  Febru- 
ary into  March.  In  the  train  of  winter  succeeded 
those  grey  days  when  March,  not  stormy  enough 


INTO  THE  FIRE  91 

to  be  dubbed  lion,  yet  too  ungentle  for  a  lamb's 
name,  drizzled  hour  after  hour  from  heavy  clouds. 
The  much-rained-on  inhabitants  of  Boston  began  to 
forget  the  sun,  which  appeared,  if  ever,  to  shine 
shamefacedly  for  a  moment  at  sunset  over  a  city  of 
puddles ;  they  went  about  their  daily  work  in  rubbers 
and  bad  tempers. 

In  time  tongues  began  to  wag.  Though  the  sud- 
den attachment  of  Benjamin  to  Rosalind  was  too 
patent  to  be  good  gossip,  since  the  season  was  dull, 
a  few  kindly  disposed  ladies  of  inquisitive  tempera- 
ment made  much  of  the  matter.  An  engagement 
was  rumoured.  When  the  report  came  to  Rosa- 
lind's ears,  she  was  surprised  and  good-humoured 
in  laughing  it  down;  but  tongues  at  bridge  tables 
will  not  be  laughed  down,  and  over  the  cards  in 
the  Cavendish  Club,  where  circulated  the  dark  tittle- 
tattle  of  other  women's  business,  Rosalind's  name 
was  mentioned  with  glances  full  of  significance.  By 
means  of  the  husbands  of  these  bridge  players  the 
news  entered  the  Sarcophagus,  and  gentlemen  of 
the  old  school,  gazing  through  their  brandy-and- 
sodas  out  of  the  great  front  windows  which  looked 
over  the  Common,  choked  at  the  expression  on  Mr. 
Quincy's  face  when  marriage  in  his  family  was 
hinted.  "  You'll  be  the  next  captive,  Jo-Jo !  "  they 
cried  hoarsely,  as  they  rolled  about  in  the  great 
leather  chairs.  "  Joey  engaged !  Ha-ha !  Take 
your  niece's  example.  Don't  be  timid !  " 

Perhaps  there  was  sufficient  basis  for  the  rumour. 
United  by  many  pursuits  and  inclinations,  Rosalind 
and  Benjamin  were  seen  everywhere  together.  If 
she  found  him  unappreciative  of  the  higher  arts,  of 
paintings  which  caught  her  eye  and  held  it  fasci- 
nated, of  music  which  flooded  her  with  warmth,  of 


92  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

poetry  which  sang  so  well  the  things  she  dimly  felt, 
but  never  could  herself  express,  if  he  was  hopelessly 
practical  and  unromantic,  at  least  he  pretended  to 
be  nothing  else.  He  told  her  frankly  that  the  Sym- 
phony made  him  feel  numb  with  sleep,  that  the  in- 
cessant scraping  and  thumping  stupefied  him.  Re- 
alising with  a  sense  of  relief  that  he  did  not  try 
to  pose  as  a  music  lover,  like  some  of  her  boy 
friends,  she  gave  up  inviting  him  to  go  with  her. 
To  pretend  an  admiration  for  the  sake  of  opinion 
is  to  give  prima  facie  evidence  of  insincerity; 
Gary  with  the  frankness  of  an  older  man  pleased 
her. 

Not  only  were  they  often  together,  but  sharp  eyes 
often  discovered  them  in  the  most  out  of  the  way 
places.  Summoned  one  March  morning  to  the 
Roxbury  police  court  for  over-speeding,  Mr.  Here- 
ford, in  glancing  about  the  dock,  caught  sight  of 
Rosalind.  She  had  come  to  hear  Benjamin  handle 
the  case  of  a  poor  scrubwoman  whose  husband  beat 
her,  a  case  which  he  had  taken  out  of  kindhearted- 
ness.  Rosalind,  whose  sympathetic  heart  was  much 
struck  by  the  deed,  made  a  great  story  out  of  it 
for  her  family;  but  not  half  so  great  as  Mr.  Here- 
ford's wife  devised  for  the  Cavendish  Club.  When 
Rosalind  visited  the  Supreme  Court  of  Massachu- 
setts to  hear  Benjamin  argue  before  that  august  as- 
semblage, it  was  Mrs.  Scribble's  husband,  one  of 
the  seniors  of  Foolscap,  Parrypoint,  and  Scribble, 
who  opposed  him.  Throw  a  pebble  in  a  pond  and 
watch  the  circular  ring  of  waves  spread;  in  a  day 
the  tea-time  conversation  of  three  dozen  ladies  of 
Beacon  Street  began  with :  "  Have  you  heard  what 
Mrs.  Scribble  says  ?  " 

But  it  was  not  always  Rosalind  who  went  to  hear 


INTO  THE  FIRE  93 

and  see  Benjamin;  he  was  the  constant  attendant 
on  the  lesser  cares  of  her  woman's  life.  Without 
his  precision  and  logical  arrangement  of  detail  the 
fiftieth  anniversary  exercises  at  Brimmer  House 
could  have  achieved  no  such  complete  success.  The 
afternoon  was  long  memorable  to  him.  Lost  in  the 
crowd  of  guests,  he  heard  her  few  words  in  intro- 
duction of  the  captive  and  smiling  Mayor  with  a 
queer  tremor  of  nervousness.  It  was  strange  to 
hear  her  soft  voice  before  so  many  people,  strange 
and  unnatural,  like  the  sudden  unveiling  of  some- 
thing hitherto  hidden.  He  cast  a  furtive  glance 
about  the  room,  feeling  self-conscious  and  large 
among  the  crowd,  but  no  one  had  noticed  his  em- 
barrassment. When  she  had  finished,  he  was  proud 
of  her  success  and  congratulated  her  warmly  on  the 
simplicity  of  her  presence.  They  walked  home  to- 
gether, discussing  the  future  of  Brimmer  House,  a 
subject  constantly  before  them.  He  loved  nothing 
better  than  to  be  with  her  as  she  did  whatever  work 
she  might  have  on  hand  for  the  House,  to  watch  her 
interest  in  her  charity,  to  help  and  advise  her.  Here 
was  something  at  which  they  could  meet  on  more 
equal  terms.  If  he  could  not  respond  to  her  en- 
thusiasms over  the  opera,  in  the  field  of  practical 
affairs  it  was  she  who  must  look  to  him  for  guid- 
ance. And  that  guidance  he  gave  more  happily  than 
anything  in  his  life. 

One  evening  Rosalind  was  seated  at  the  piano  in 
the  drawing  room  of  Eight  Louisburg  Square,  while 
beside  her  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton,  sunk  back  into 
a  deep  chair,  watched  her  as  she  played.  The  room 
was  peaceful  and  dark.  A  lamp  near  the  piano, 
the  light  of  which  enabled  Rosalind  to  read  from  the 


94  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

music  before  her,  shed  a  subdued,  soft  light  on  her 
golden  hair  and  created  delicate  shadows  about  her 
bare  neck. 

"  These  Chaminade  pieces  are  too  fast  for  my 
fingers,"  she  laughed  at  the  conclusion  of  one  of  the 
pyrotechnical  waltzes.  "  What  shall  it  be  next, 
Uncle  Sing-Sing?  It's  getting  late,  almost  time  for 
me  to  go  home.  What  shall  we  have  —  the  Pre- 
lude?" 

Her  godfather  nodding  assent,  she  turned  over 
the  music  until  she  came  to  "  Les  Preludes "  of 
Frederic  Chopin  and  opened  the  little  book  to  the 
seventeenth.  There  was  reverence  in  her  manner 
as  she  began  to  play,  the  reverence  of  any  novice 
attempting  a  thing  well-known  and  well-loved.  She 
was  far  from  skilled.  As  the  soft  sadness  of  the 
prelude  stole  out  into  the  room,  there  were  stum- 
bles in  technique;  but  these  occasional  errors  could 
not  mar  the  tenderness  of  the  piece,  the  gentleness, 
the  calm,  and  the  sweetness  which  she  felt  in  it  as 
she  played.  Still  the  delicate  refrain  called  forth 
a  legion  of  memories ;  still  the  insistent  booming  of 
the  chapel  bell  blended  in  harmony  with  the  air. 
Her  eyes  shone  with  the  beauty  of  it;  those  of  her 
godfather  were  bright  with  retrospect. 

"  Oh!  I  wish  I  could  play  it,"  she  exclaimed  in 
a  low  voice,  when  the  last  deep  note  of  the  chapel 
bell  was  hushed  into  silence.  "  I  wish  I  could  really 
play  it." 

She  slowly  covered  the  piano;  the  last  piece  was 
finished. 

"  Rose."  The  invalid  spoke  softly  and  ten- 
derly. 

She  turned  to  find  him  holding  something  in  his 
out-stretched  hand. 


INTO  THE  FIRE  95 

"  Some  one  I  loved  once  played  that."  Never 
before  had  she  heard  her  godfather  speak  so  calmly. 
It  was  the  old  halting  voice,  but  a  voice  flooded  with 
shining  memories.  "  This  was  hers,  from  me." 
He  opened  his  clenched  hand;  in  the  subdued  light 
a  jumble  of  pearls  shone  on  his  palm.  "  Before  she 
died  she  sent  them  back." 

Wondering  at  the  words,  Rosalind  stood  beside 
his  chair;  to  her  inward  eye  came  suddenly  the  pic- 
ture of  the  pearl-circled  miniature. 

"  How  beautiful  they  are !  I'm  sure  she  loved 
them." 

"  She  did."  The  invalid  smiled  faintly.  "  Put 
them  on." 

Rosalind  clasped  the  pearls  behind  her  neck  —  a 
perfect  string,  not  large,  but  of  beautiful  colour  and 
faultless  gradation. 

"  There."  She  tipped  the  lamp  shade  so  that  the 
light  fell  full  on  the  soft  curve  of  her  throat.  "  Are 
they  lovely,  dear?  " 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  a  long  time  in  silence, 
so  long  a  time  that  she  thought  he  had  forgotten  the 
present  in  thinking  of  the  past. 

"  Take  them,"  he  said  at  length.  "  Wear  them, 
dearest." 

"Oh,  godfather!  Do  you  —  do  you  really 
mean  — ?  "  She  was  troubled  with  surprise;  he  had 
never  spoken  of  his  youth  and  youthful  love  to  her 
before.  "  I  shall  always  wear  them;  I  shall  always 
love  them." 

She  kissed  his  pale  forehead  gently. 

;'  We  two." 

4  Yes,  dear.     I  shall  not  tell;  I  understand." 

The  entrance  of  Edouard  prevented  any  further 
thanks,  could  she  have  made  them. 


96  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  It's  your  motor,  Miss  Rosalind,  and  young  Mr. 
Gary  in  it." 

The  invalid  looked  up  suddenly. 

"  Mr.  Gary?"  she  asked  in  wonder. 

"  Yes,  miss.  He  said  he  found  you  out  at  your 
house." 

"  I  hope  there's  nothing  happened.  .  .  .  Good- 
night, dear  godfather.  These  pearls  are  the  sweet- 
est present  you  have  ever  given  me ;  I  know  how  much 
they  mean  to  you." 

She  kissed  the  invalid  good-night  and  quietly  went 
away,  leaving  him  seated  by  the  piano  to  think  of 
the  desperate  distance  of  the  past. 

"  Why,  Ben,  what  brings  you  here  at  this  time  of 
night?  There's  nothing  wrong,  I  hope?  " 

"  No,  Rose.  I  have  to  go  away,  and  I  wanted  to 
say  good-bye." 

The  motor  rolled  slowly  down  the  steep  decline 
of  Mt.  Vernon  Street. 

"  Going  away?     When?  " 

He  felt  Rosalind  turn  towards  him  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

'  To-morrow  morning.  I'm  going  to  New  Or- 
leans for  the  office." 

"  New  Orleans!     Oh,  Ben—" 

"  It's  a  legal  tangle  over  a  will  and  I  seem  to  be 
the  only  man  who  can  go.     Naturally  I  wanted  to 
say  good-bye  to  you  before  I  left.     They  told  me 
at  your  house  you  were  with  your  godfather." 
4  Yes.     But,  Ben,  how  long  will  you  be  gone?  " 

"  A  month,  I  should  think,  at  the  least."  He 
said  it  quietly,  but  with  much  feeling.  "  It  will  be 
a  long,  long  time." 

"  Must  you  go?     I'm  so  sorry." 

"  So  am  I.     It  will  be  — " 


INTO  THE  FIRE  97 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  In  the  blank, 
rather  hopeless  silence  which  followed  Rosalind  be- 
gan to  realise  how  much  of  a  place  he  had  been  fill- 
ing in  her  life.  The  vista  of  a  month  without  him  to 
advise  her  in  Brimmer  House  affairs,  of  a  month 
without  his  accustomed  figure  by  the  fire-place  at 
29  Commonwealth,  of  a  month  without  some  one 
more  serious  than  Philip  Brooks  to  talk  to,  looked 
more  bleak  than  she  had  ever  thought  such  a  vista 
could  look.  In  December  the  absence  of  any  man 
would  not  have  troubled  her  in  the  least;  but  it  was 
March  now,  and  at  the  thought  of  their  projected 
separation  she  was  aware  of  a  crescent  sense  of  lone- 
liness. 

"  I  shall  miss  you  tremendously.  We  have  been 
so  much  together  lately  that  it's  like  having  a  finger 
decide  to  go  off  to  New  Orleans  to  have  you  leave. 
Are  you  sure  you'll  be  a  month?  " 

The  question  was  sweet  in  Benjamin's  ears;  under 
the  affection  of  its  tone  his  love  welled  up  like  a 
fountain  which  reaches  unaccustomed  heights  when 
its  sources  are  increased  by  gentle  rains. 

"  It  will  surely  be  a  month.  Rose,  will  you  — 
will  you  write  me?  A  month  is  such  a  long 
time." 

It  was  the  hardest  speech  that  he  had  ever  made. 
The  words,  which  the  darkness  of  the  enclosed  motor 
alone  made  it  possible  for  him  to  utter,  sounded 
painfully  bald  on  his  lips. 

"  Of  course  I  will,  Ben.  You  must  give  me  your 
address." 

"  I'll  send  it  to  you  when  I'm  settled  there,"  he 
replied  happily.  A  wave  of  content  broke  over  him. 
"  It's  awfully  kind  of  you,  Rosalind;  they  will  mean 
so  much  to  me  down  there." 


98  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  It's  a  little  thing  to  do.  If  you  have  time,  you 
must  write  to  me,  too,  about  your  progress." 

Gary  smiled  to  himself  in  the  darkness;  he  would 
have  time,  plenty  of  time  for  such  letters. 

;'  Do  you  realise,"  asked  Rosalind  with  a  laugh, 
"  that  we've  been  stopped  before  my  house  for  sev- 
eral minutes?  I'm  sure  Edmund  will  have  imagined 
all  sorts  of  things." 

Had  Gary  been  anything  but  a  quiet,  reserved, 
masculine  man  he  would  have  seized  on  this  oppor- 
tunity, but,  like  so  many  of  his  fellows,  in  love  he 
lacked  the  courage  of  his  convictions.  Vaguely  sen- 
sible of  having  said  not  half  what  the  occasion  war- 
ranted, he  handed  Rosalind  out  of  the  automobile. 

"  Shall  Edmund  take  you  home?  " 

"  Thank  you.  I  think  I'll  walk  for  the  exercise. 
It's  a  beautiful  night  for  once." 

Rosalind  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  She  stood 
on  the  first  step  of  her  house,  where  the  light  of 
a  neighbouring  street  lamp  fell  dimly  on  her  fur- 
coat.  The  gauzy  veil  which  she  had  flung  over  her 
head  was  partly  fallen  back,  and  Benjamin  could 
make  out  her  face  in  the  darkness,  smiling  into  his 
eyes. 

"  Good  night,  Ben.  We'll  look  ahead  to  the  time 
when  you  come  back.  Don't  forget  to  send  me  your 
address." 

He  took  her  hand.     For  a  moment  it  lay  in  his. 

"  Good-night,  Rosalind.     Good-bye." 

He  turned  and  walked  rapidly  off  into  the  night 
without  glancing  back,  though  he  was  sorely 
tempted.  It  took  determination  to  leave  Rosalind 
and  not  steal  a  last  look,  but  he  walked  on,  turning 
over  in  his  mind  all  the  happiness  which  had  been 
compressed  into  the  last  three  months  of  their  asso- 


INTO  THE  FIRE  99 

elation.  It  was  sad  to  leave  it  all,  yet  his  heart 
sang  at  her  promise  to  write  to  him,  and  he  felt 
that  a  new  relation  might  arise  from  it.  If  he  was 
too  phlegmatic  to  experience  the  immediate  bitter- 
ness of  this  parting,  he  had  at  least  a  keen  realisation 
of  the  nonsense  embodied  in  the  old  saying  that 
"  parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow."  Parting  is  sweet 
only  in  the  prospect  of  speedy  reunion;  his  exile  was 
one  of  thirty  days  in  which  no  sweetness  lay. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHAT    HAPPENED   IN   AIKEN 

TO  the  genial  haven  of  Aiken,  South  Carolina, 
more  beneficial  medicinally  than  all  the  ton- 
ics and  drugs  in  the  Pharmacopoeia,  Mr.  Sin- 
gleton Singleton  migrated  soon  after  Benjamin 
Gary's  arrival  in  New  Orleans.  It  is  not  good  for 
persons  of  delicate  health  and  great  fortune  to  re- 
main in  Boston  during  March ;  there  is  something  in 
the  air,  something  in  the  rain,  something  in  the  mo- 
bility of  temperature  which  leads  doctors  to  pack 
their  valuable  clients  off  to  the  South.  Therefore  on 
the  sixth  consecutive  day  of  storm  the  establishment 
of  8  Louisburg  Square  quitted  misty  Boston  for  the 
invigourating  warmth  of  Carolina,  quitted  the  great, 
solemn  rooms  of  the  old  house,  on  whose  panels  hung 
Romneys  and  Corots,  for  the  simplicity  of  a  little 
cottage  with  bare  cypress  walls,  lost  among  the  pine 
trees.  The  change  was  utter  and  absolute.  Instead 
of  a  quantity  of  servants,  a  large  negress  cook,  a 
maid,  and  the  omnipresent  Edouard;  instead  of  the 
circumscribed  area  of  city  streets,  the  freshness  of 
the  laughing  South  stretching  away  on  all  sides;  in- 
stead of  rain,  shrouding  the  Square  in  mist,  sunshine 
which  sparkled  from  each  blade  of  grass,  from  the 
emerald  tip  of  each  pine  needle,  and  from  each  indi- 
vidual grain  of  sand;  instead  of  a  drab  city  still  in 
the  clutches  of  winter,  a  countryside  radiant  with 

100 


WHAT  HAPPENED  IN  AIKEN       101 

spring;  in  short,  instead  of  everything  that  was  dis- 
cordant, everything  that  was  harmonious  and  soft. 

As  usual  Rosalind  accompanied  her  godfather;  the 
physicians  were  far  too  wise  to  advocate  a  change 
from  her  presence  and  affection.  During  his 
gradual  recuperation  she  settled  into  the  pleasant 
laziness  of  southern  days.  It  was  a  stupid,  comfort- 
able, healthy  life,  such  as  even  the  most  active  of  us 
for  a  time  finds  pleasant  —  a  little  riding,  a  little 
golf  and  tennis,  an  occasional  dove  drive,  a  few  let- 
ters to  read  and  write  in  the  morning. 

Of  her  correspondence  Benjamin's  letters  were  the 
most  interesting;  they  were  lawyer-like  briefs,  written 
in  a  firm  hand,  rather  than  personal  communications. 
From  them  she  obtained  a  clear,  dispassionate  picture 
of  New  Orleans,  which  he  found  a  second  Marseilles, 
an  idea  of  Louisiana's  lazy  methods  of  doing  busi- 
ness, much  information  about  the  case  he  was  in- 
vestigating, but  only  faint  glimpses  of  himself.  He 
wrote  in  his  second  letter :  "  I  find  myself  much 
alone  here.  It  is  a  relief,  though,  to  think  that  you 
are  not  still  in  Boston,  doing  alone  all  those  things 
which  of  late  we  have  done  together.  The  picture 
of  you  in  a  new  place  is  pleasanter  to  look  on. 
Aiken  should  do  you  good."  Gary  had  hesitated  to 
send  even  this  scrap  of  evidence  of  his  oppressive 
loneliness,  but  had  finally  let  it  remain  in  the  letter. 
Like  all  those  in  love  he  read  into  the  words  the 
wealth  of  longing  in  his  heart,  and  was  both  eager 
and  fearful  that  Rosalind  value  the  sentiment  at 
its  true  worth.  But  she  failed  to  understand  the 
intensity  of  his  feelings.  She  found  in  the  words 
only  the  affection  of  one  friend  for  another,  such  af- 
fection as  she  herself  might  have  meant  in  like  words 
addressed  to  him.  The  love  and  pain  which  we 


102  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

write  into  the  letters  we  make  for  those  we  love 
is  never  understood  as  it  is  written;  ink  is  no  true 
spokesman  of  the  heart,  but  a  lying,  weak-kneed, 
pale  translator  of  divine  messages.  Yet  she  was 
fully  aware  of  the  gap  Benjamin's  absence  made  in 
her  life,  and  it  was  with  the  keenest  pleasure  that 
she  obtained  a  promise  from  him  to  stop  over  in 
Aiken  for  a  few  days  on  his  way  home. 

A  week  before  he  was  due  to  arrive,  another  and 
unexpected  visitor  came  to  them.  Heralded  only  by 
a  mysterious  telegram  from  Asheville,  Mr.  Joseph 
Quincy  descended  from  the  northern  train  one  glo- 
rious morning,  bearing  on  his  face  the  traces  of  a 
sleepless  night. 

"So  you've  been  in  Asheville,  Uncle  Jo-Jo?" 
asked  Rosalind,  when  they  were  slowly  driving  along 
the  sandy  main  road. 

"I  will  not  deceive  you,  Rose;  I  have  been  in 
Asheville,"  he  replied  with  profound  decision. 
"  Furthermore,  I  have  been  there  with  the  Misses 
Hepplethwaite;  and  not  only  have  I  been  there  with 
the  Misses  Hepplethwaite,  but  I  have  fled  from  Ashe- 
ville, if  I  may  use  the  phrase,  in  extremis." 

'  Tell  me  about  it,"  urged  his  niece  with  an  admi- 
rable effort  at  seriousness. 

'  To  begin  with,  I  was  lured  to  the  place  under 
false  pretences.  Miss  Amy  Pearce  was  to  have 
been  there  —  a  lovely  young  creature !  Air  and 
fire !  A  cousin  of  the  family,  I  believe." 

"  A  debutante?" 

"  Last  year,  but  still  exquisite.  She  was  not 
there,  of  course;  the  whole  thing  was  a  colossal 
lie." 

Mr.  Quincy's  eyes  flamed  with  righteous  indig- 
nation. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  IN  AIKEN       103 

"  But  the  Misses  Hepplethwaite  — ?  " 

"  Never  fear !  They  were  there  —  the  harpies ! 
And  they  had  laid  out  a  systematic  schedule  to  un- 
dermine my  resolve.  I  rode  with  Jane  —  alone;  I 
drove  with  Joan  —  alone ;  and  when  she  had  a  head- 
ache —  bah !  headache !  —  I  took  Jane  on  a  picnic 
in  the  woods  —  alone.  If  it  was  not  one,  it  was 
the  other,  but  always  —  alone  !  "  At  each  repe- 
tition of  the  emphatic  word,  Mr.  Quincy's  voice 
rang  with  melancholy.  "  But  I  was  adamant;  my 
heart  was  as  hard  as  alabaster  and  as  cold  as  ice. 
Like  Argus,  I  was  all  eyes.  If  I  had  once  weak- 
ened, if  I  had  once  allowed  Jane's  superiority  to 
chill  me  or  Joan's  blandishments  to  undermine  me, 
if  I  had  once  allowed  either  of  them  to  get  her 
knife  under  the  oyster-shell  — !  " 

Mr.  Quincy  threw  back  his  head,  and  with  closed 
eyes  convulsively  swallowed  several  times  in  demon- 
stration of  the  passage  of  a  resisting  oyster  down  a 
greedy  throat. 

"  But  what  a  pearl  they  would  have  found  in  the 
shell!" 

"  They  are  not  looking  for  any  pearls,"  re- 
sponded Mr.  Quincy  sagely.  "  Only  women  of  your 
age,  Rose,  who  can  choose  as  they  go,  look  for 
pearls;  all  the  harpy  wants  is  to  crack  the  shell, 
whether  there  is  an  oyster  inside  or  not." 

"How  did  you  escape,  Uncle  Jo-Jo?" 

"  Ah !  That  is  where  my  ingenuity  came  in ! 
While  we  sat  at  dinner  I  had  delivered  to  me  a  wire 
saying  that  Tony  was  much  worse.  I  clapped  my 
hand  to  my  head,  turned  pale,  and,  to  make  nothing 
of  my  strategy,  retreated  in  disorder,  but  still 
single."  Mr.  Quincy  smiled  in  appreciation  of  his 
own  cleverness. 


io4  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"But  he  isn't!  He's  better  than  he's  been  in 
years !  " 

"Oh!  That's  no  matter!  No  matter  at  all! 
To  make  my  escape  absolute  I'm  going  to  sail  for 
Bermuda  on  Monday." 

"  Uncle  Jo- Jo !  Frightened  away  by  a  petti- 
coat? " 

"  You  may  laugh,  my  love,  because  the  boot  is  not 
on  your  pretty  little  foot;  but  please  remember  that 
he  who  runs  away,  lives  bachelor  another  day.  Fur- 
thermore," he  added  loftily,  "  the  Governor  is  to 
fill  a  vacancy  on  his  staff,  and  I  do  not  wish  my  polit- 
ical opinions  —  ahem !  —  to  be  at  all  —  ahem !  — 
to  influence  his  choice ;  on  the  whole  it  is  best  not  to 
be  present  during  such  a  political  crisis." 

Mr.  Quincy  was  a  delightful  visitor.  At  every 
moment  there  came  to  his  mind  some  new  intrigue  of 
the  Misses  Hepplethwaite  with  which  to  amuse 
Rosalind,  and  his  ceaseless  and  unavailing  efforts  to 
compose  a  bread-and-butter  letter  of  complimentary 
thanks  to  these  ladies,  for  whom  he  appeared  to 
cherish  the  most  consummate  antipathy,  roused  even 
Mr.  Singleton  Singleton.  One  could  not  but  be 
merry  in  his  company;  his  mock  grief  as  well  as  his 
mock  anger  were  made  for  mortal  delectation. 

Benjamin,  who  arrived  some  days  later,  was  less 
amusing  a  guest,  but  there  was  something  substantial 
in  his  character  which  Rosalind  from  the  first  had 
loved.  Sometimes  she  had  thought  of  him  as  a 
man-mountain.  In  his  presence  she  had  felt  that 
protection  which  lies  in  the  reposeful  shadow  of  pur- 
ple hills;  in  his  physical  strength  she  had  found  that 
provocative  antithesis  which  attracts  all  women.  If 
their  separation  had  taught  her  how  much  she  had 
come  to  enjoy  his  serenity  and  essential  manliness,  it 


WHAT  HAPPENED  IN  AIKEN      105 

had  also  taught  her  to  look  forward  to  his  coming 
with  keen  anticipation. 

To  find  even  in  his  first  greeting  that  he  was 
changed  was  a  disagreeable  shock.  In  his  absence 
she  had  with  the  deepest  satisfaction  pictured  the 
renewal  of  their  friendship  and  the  restoration  of 
the  old,  familiar  days  and  hours.  She  had  gone  to 
meet  him  at  the  station  with  the  spirit  of  affectionate 
comradeship  shining  in  her  eyes;  to  what  end?  It 
takes  two  people  in  this  world  to  establish  a  rela- 
tion. If  the  man  does  not  respond  in  the  same  man- 
ner, it  is  wasted  time  for  the  woman  to  speak  frankly 
and  unaffectedly,  to  seek  an  eye  which  turns  from 
hers.  With  a  sudden  discouragement  and  discon- 
tent she  realised  that  there  was  constraint  in  his  man- 
ner; he  was  no  longer  the  Benjamin  of  other  days, 
but  a  changed  Benjamin,  whose  glance  followed  her 
about  the  room  with  furtive  insistence  and  whose 
heart  concealed  something  foreign  to  the  serene 
stability  which  she  had  imagined  his.  As  she  stood 
beside  him,  she  was  uneasy;  mountains  are  not  so 
pleasant  when  one  discovers  them  to  be  volcanic. 
She  was  not  twenty-three  for  nothing;  there  are  a 
thousand  little  ways  in  which  the  manners  of  a  man 
reveal  his  heart  to  a  woman.  During  their  con- 
tinuous association  in  Boston  she  had  failed  to  grasp 
the  gradual  change  in  their  relations;  but  now,  after 
a  month  of  separation,  it  was  impossible  to  meet 
again  as  they  had  parted.  Imagination  paints  our 
future  as  we  wish  it  painted.  She  had  imagined 
Benjamin  a  friend;  to  her  consummate  regret  she 
found  him  a  lover. 

"  What  a  pity!  "  she  whispered  to  her  pillow  on 
the  night  of  his  arrival.  "  Are  there  no  sensible 
men  on  earth?  " 


io6  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

She  wanted  no  lovers;  in  Benjamin  she  had  never 
dreamed  of  finding  one.  Boys  had  been  in  love  with 
her  before,  had  sentimentalised  over  her,  had  writ- 
ten much  sound  and  little  reason  to  win  her  heart. 
Of  these,  some  she  had  tolerated,  some  she  had  liked. 
But  Benjamin  was  not  a  boy,  and  he  was  meant  for 
neither  her  toleration  nor  her  liking.  To  her  the 
very  idea  of  him  as  a  lover  was  anomalous  and 
ridiculous;  as  soon  should  she  have  conceived  the 
minister  of  Trinity  Church  making  sheep's-eyes  as 
Benjamin  moon-struck  and  in  love.  Here  was  some- 
thing very  magnificent,  very  strong,  very  powerful, 
suddenly  yielding  to  the  common  frailty  of  all  men; 
here  was  Odysseus  deprived  again  of  his  wisdom  by 
Calypso  and  Samson  idling  in  the  vale  of  Sorec.  It 
was  repellent.  Rosalind  had  thought  Benjamin  as 
near  the  perfect  man  as  one  might  care  to  find;  she 
knew  that  their  friendship  had  turned  to  dross  other 
association.  But  she  also  knew  that,  though  her 
heart  exalted  and  admired  him  as  a  good,  clear  man 
and  a  brave  comrade,  it  held  no  love  for  him.  He 
had  not  become  a  necessity  to  her  life;  perhaps  an 
invaluable  accessory,  but  never  the  necessity  which 
he  hoped  to  make  himself. 

The  knowledge  of  the  change  put  Rosalind  out  of 
conceit  with  the  world,  and  Benjamin's  three  days 
slipped  by  under  a  cloud  of  uneasiness.  There  was 
a  lack  of  adjustment  between  them,  a  stiffness,  un- 
natural and  unbearable;  yet  there  was  no  physic  for 
it.  Since  going  back  was  not  possible,  and  the  con- 
straint between  them  favoured  progress  still  less,  a 
hollow  compromise  was  struck.  Like  puppets  they 
performed  their  parts  with  mechanical  emptiness. 
In  the  morning  they  rode  horseback,  threading  the 
sandy  roads  which  wound  through  odorous  pine 


WHAT  HAPPENED  IN  AIKEN       107 

groves;  in  the  afternoon  they  played  golf  at  the 
Country  Club,  where  Benjamin,  who  had  been  in 
college  a  famous  athlete,  was  the  feature  of  the 
links.  As  he  lived,  he  played  —  quietly,  sternly, 
precisely,  perfectly.  But  there  was  no  pleasure  in 
the  games;  constraint  kills  all  mutual  enjoyment. 
Perhaps  unjustly  Rosalind  grew  out  of  patience  with 
him.  Forgetting  that  she  had  paved  originally  the 
very  path  on  which  he  now  was  walking,  she  illogi- 
cally  abused  him  for  his  steps.  Yet  she  was  not 
selfish  in  her  accusation;  a  great  friendship  is  so 
magnificent  and  sacred  that  our  poor  human  fears 
for  its  continuance  and  our  sorrows  at  its  end  cannot 
be  called  selfish  without  detracting  from  its  quality. 
Where  all  mortality  is  selfish,  we  call  it  human; 
and  Rosalind  was  very  human  about  Benjamin. 
Since  the  change  in  him  destroyed  not  only  their 
friendship,  but  also  its  great  promise,  she  was  angry 
and  repelled;  yet  in  her  heart  she  cherished  him  as 
he  had  been,  and,  as  they  walked  to  meet  his  train 
on  the  last  day  of  his  visit,  felt  a  pang  of  loneliness. 

It  was  a  clear,  windy  morning  with  a  sky  as  blue 
and  stainless  as  if  fairy  hands  had  been  scrubbing 
at  it  with  vast,  invisible  brushes.  The  wind,  which 
stirred  little  whirlwinds  of  dust  from  the  sandy  roads 
to  spend  themselves  in  the  fury  of  their  rise,  pulled 
at  Rosalind's  hair  and  sent  it  flying  across  her  face. 

"  We're  early,"  she  said,  glancing  at  her  watch. 
"  In  this  wind  you  walk  fast  without  noticing  it. 
There's  almost  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  the  sta- 
tion's around  that  corner  by  the  little  hill." 

They  both  stopped.  The  path  had  led  them  by  a 
cedar  hedge  into  a  secluded  dell  which  few  knew 
and  fewer  walked  in. 

"  Let's  sit  down." 


io8  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

Rosalind  followed  her  own  suggestion,  but  Gary 
remained  standing  beside  her,  looking  down  ear- 
nestly. 

"What's  been  —  the  matter,  Rose?"  he  asked. 

"Matter?" 

"  Between  us,  I  mean." 

She  felt  suddenly  cold,  and  groped  for  a  word  to 
express  the  disappointment  in  her  heart. 

"  I  think  —  you  know  better  than  any  one,  Ben." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  know,"  he  said  evenly;  then 
without  warning,  broke  out  into  fierce,  eager  speech. 
The  words  fell  from  his  lips  as  if  no  control  could 
hold  them  back,  scattering,  nervous,  unbalanced 
words,  words  of  first  and  irrepressible  freedom.  "  I 
love  you,  Rose,  I  love  you.  I  know  what  the  mat- 
ter is;  I've  known  ever  since  I  went  to  New  Orleans, 
and  you  must  know,  too.  I  love  you  terribly.  Do 
you  understand?  Terribly.  I  cannot  go  back 
alone;  it  is  misery.  I  am  changed  since  last  year. 
Then  I  did  not  know,  but  you  have  taught  me,  Rosa- 
lind, and  I  have  learned  the  lesson  well !  " 

He  ceased  to  speak  with  the  suddenness  of  his 
beginning.  Rosalind  found  herself  staring  at  a  pale 
blue-bell,  the  stem  of  which  was  crushed  beneath  his 
heel,  at  a  loss  for  words. 

'  You  don't  say  anything,  Rose." 

She  looked  at  him  for  the  first  time,  and  with  a 
timid  smile  on  her  lips  stretched  forth  her  hand. 
He  seized  it  in  his. 

"  Sit  down,  Ben.     Let's  have  a  talk." 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  his  eyes  bent  fixedly  on 
her  face. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  to  see  it  all  go,"  she  said  softly. 

;;GO?  what?" 

"  Our  friendship.     This  winter  has  been  wonder- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  IN  AIKEN      109 

ful  to  me;  we've  done  so  many  things  together  and 
we've  found  each  other  so  companionable.  I've  ad- 
mired and  liked  you,  Ben,  and  you  — " 

u  I  admired  and  liked  you,  too,  at  first,  but  I 
couldn't  go  on  like  that;  it's  not  human.  You  can't 
expect  a  man  to  remain  just  a  friend  when  the  world 
is  stupid  and  empty  without  a  certain  woman.  A 
man  has  to  have  love;  it  is  inevitable.  I  need  you, 
Rose;  that  is  all." 

Rosalind  felt  a  great  desire  to  be  far  away  from 
where  she  was;  the  little  dell  was  close  and  narrow, 
and  in  the  hateful  moment  which  was  coming  she 
was  to  make  suffer  some  one  of  whom  she  was  very 
fond. 

"  And  now  we  can't  go  back !  Ben,  you  were  so 
different  from  my  other  friends;  now  you're  like 
them.  I  wish  — " 

She  hesitated.  There  was  nothing  for  her  to  say; 
she  realised  that  it  would  be  added  cruelty  to  speak 
dull,  cold  words  of  regret.  Regret  is  seldom  worth 
the  breath  that  whispers  it. 

"Rose!"  His  voice  struck  pleadingly  on  her 
ear.  "  Can't  you  say  —  something?  " 

"  What  would  you  have  me  say?  " 

"  That  you  will  marry  me." 

He  said  it  in  a  firm  voice,  measuring  the  syllables 
with  a  passionate  care. 

"Oh,  Ben,  I  can't!" 

She  jumped  up  impulsively  in  almost  physical  re- 
volt, unwilling  to  bear  the  pleading  in  his  voice  and 
eyes.  A  desire  to  be  alone  dominated  her,  a  desire 
for  the  freedom  of  some  crowning  hill,  where  the 
wind  might  wash  about  her  in  clear,  cool  waves  and 
she  might  forget  the  responsibilities  and  relations  of 
human  existence  in  a  communion  with  the  elements. 


no  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

In  the  dell  she  felt  enmeshed  and  burdened;  but, 
woman-like,  she  spoke  tenderly  to  the  man  seated  at 
her  feet. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Ben.  I  didn't  mean  to  speak  like 
that,  but  I  —  I  —  it  was  on  the  impulse.  You  know 
how  I  value  you.  All  this  winter  I  have  given  you 
the  best  in  me  with  pleasure,  but  that  best  is  not 
enough  to  answer  your  asking.  I  am  afraid  that 
you  want  more  than  I  can  give.  It  is  my  limitation, 
not  your  fault.  It  must  be  in  me  that  I  cannot  love 
enough  to  marry.  I  have  never  cared  for  any  man 
as  much  as  for  you,  yet  for  all  that  I  —  I  cannot 
marry  you.  Do  you  understand?" 

She  smiled  wistfully  at  him  as  he  arose. 

"  I  can't  think  now.  I  can't  believe  it.  Of 
course,  the  —  the  fault  must  lie  in  me.  .  .  .  And 
do  you  mean  you  never  — ?  It  cannot  be  never?  " 

Such  an  appeal  is  not  readily  borne;  Rosalind's 
heart  softened. 

"  I  don't  know  that,  Ben.  Only  the  gods  do. 
Some  day  — " 

"  Then  I  —  may  I  talk  to  you  again,  Rose  ?  I 
must." 

A  whistle  shrieked  imperatively  in  the  distance. 

'That's  your  train." 

"  Rose,  will  you  try  to  —  think  of  me  ?  " 

His  clear,  grey  eyes  held  hers  for  a  moment. 
1  Yes,"  she  replied  faintly,  "  I'll  try." 

"  Until  you  come  to  Boston  I  shall  remember 
that;  it  will  help.  Good-bye." 

He  pressed  her  hand  hard,  turned,  and  ran  down 
the  path.  Rosalind  stood  looking  after  him,  recall- 
ing the  night  on  which  he  had  come  to  tell  her  of  his 
departure  for  New  Orleans.  This  time  he  turned 
back  at  the  curve  to  wave  a  last  farewell. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  IN  AIKEN      in 

"  Good-bye,  Ben,"  she  called  after  him. 

When  the  last  sound  of  the  train  had  mingled  with 
the  lazy  quiet,  she  slowly  retraced  her  steps  to  the 
house.  She  was  angry  and  disappointed;  but 
whether  it  was  because  of  her  inability  to  love  Ben- 
jamin enough  to  marry  him  or  because  she  had  not 
told  him  plainly  the  whole  truth  she  was  at  a  loss  to 
discover. 


CHAPTER  X 

PRELUDE    SEVENTEEN 

EXACTED  promises  are  soon  broken.  Do  we 
but  voluntarily  make  an  agreement  our  sense 
of  honour  compels  us  to  its  consummation, 
but  a  promise  made  in  a  moment  of  weakness  or 
under  compulsion  is  not  readily  kept.  Often  after 
Benjamin  had  left  Aiken,  Rosalind  regretted  the 
gentleness  of  her  nature  which  had  moved  her  to 
extend  a  deceitful  hope.  She  had  promised  to  try 
to  love  him;  she  had  been  afraid  to  face  the  immi- 
nent crisis,  and  by  compromise  had  hoped  to  spare 
the  feelings  of  both  herself  and  him.  But  her 
timidity  had  brought  her  no  comfort.  She  could  not 
love  him ;  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  think  of  him 
as  being  other  than  a  steadfast  friend.  He  was  a 
man,  a  creature  of  noble  stuff,  of  great  physical  and 
moral  strength,  but  there  was  in  his  nature  no  single 
attribute  which  she  could  not  readily  plumb.  This 
was  the  spring  of  her  discontent.  Women  are  essen- 
tially unmechanical.  They  desire  and  appreciate 
those  loftier  things  for  which  man  has  no  true  defi- 
nition; they  are  impatient  of  appearances.  If  the 
woman  is  more  religious  than  the  man,  it  is  because 
she  is  fascinated  by  a  spirituality  which  is  not  to  be 
understood.  If  she  cannot  ascribe  to  him  she  loves 
an  ideal  character,  then  her  love  is  a  poor  thing, 
born  of  necessity  or  reason,  and  will  not  flourish  in 
the  winter-time  of  life.  For  Benjamin  Rosalind 
could  conceive  no  higher  love,  no  idyllic  passion  such 

112 


PRELUDE  SEVENTEEN  113 

as  is  the  promise  of  all  pure,  sweet  natures;  every 
emotion  of  his  heart,  every  act  of  his  life  was  appar- 
ent, as  offensively  definable  as  any  mechanical  action. 
His  soul  was  too  clean  and  clear  not  to  be  readily 
understood;  frankly  and  simply  it  explained  itself, 
and  like  a  clean,  clear  lake  its  bottom  was  visible  to 
the  naked  eye.  But  if  one  must  live  forever  on  a 
lake,  the  mystery  of  depth  in  which  bottom  is  unseen 
and  distant  as  the  stars  is  preferable  to  the  crystal 
clearness  of  transparent  beauty. 

Whether  she  could  love  him  or  no,  the  promise 
was  obtrusive.  Visions  of  a  day  of  reckoning  trou- 
bled her  mind,  a  day  when  the  uncomfortable  truth 
must  be  imparted  to  Benjamin,  and  be  so  imparted 
that  the  question  would  never  rise  again.  Knowing 
that  she  must  tell  him,  that  she  must  act  squarely  and 
not  bear  him  in  hand,  she  could  find  no  words  to 
frame  what  she  must  say.  Like  all  women,  she  saw 
the  end  and  not  the  means,  and,  as  she  turned  the 
matter  over  in  her  mind,  felt  more  and  more  that  she 
had  become  involved  in  a  most  uncomfortable  tangle. 

She  was  glad  to  leave  Aiken.  If  Benjamin  had 
to  be  faced,  she  felt  it  best  to  face  him  soon  and  be- 
gin with  a  clean  slate  while  there  was  yet  chalk 
with  which  to  write.  Her  godfather  had  preceded 
her  return  on  some  mysterious  matter  of  business, 
the  secret  of  which  both  he  and  her  father,  who  had 
joined  them,  obstinately  refused  to  divulge;  hence 
she  arrived  alone  at  Back  Bay  one  fine  twilight  in 
April,  and  stepped  into  the  family's  open  automobile, 
deluged  with  that  wave  of  content  which  is  the  in- 
evitable accompaniment  of  the  true  Bostonian's  re- 
turn. To  any  citizen  of  the  world  there  is  no  place 
like  home;  to  the  true  Bostonian  there  never  has 


n4  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

been  and  never  can  be,  even  in  beatific  realms,  a 
place  like  home. 

As  the  automobile  turned  the  corner  by  the  Caven- 
dish Club  to  swing  into  Commonwealth  Avenue,  a 
shabbily  dressed  old  lady  with  a  poke  bonnet  all 
over  her  head,  stepped  off  the  curbing  directly  in 
front  of  the  wheels.  With  a  warning  cry  the  chauf- 
feur threw  on  the  brakes,  but  it  had  been  too  late  to 
save  her,  had  not  a  young  man  standing  on  the  curb 
seized  her  skirts  and  with  intuitive  swiftness  jerked 
the  old  woman  back  into  his  arms  amid  a  confusion 
of  bonnet  and  exclamation.  The  automobile  was 
brought  to  a  violent  stop;  the  chauffeur  (as  all  chauf- 
feurs do  on  such  occasions)  glowered  and  muttered; 
and  Rosalind,  who  had  nervously  stood  up,  was  the 
first  to  speak. 

"She's  not  hurt,  I  hope?" 

As  the  woman  only  mumbled  to  herself  in  a  nerv- 
ous endeavour  to  adjust  her  lop-sided  hat,  the  young 
man  replied. 

"  I  think  not.     It  did  not  even  touch  her." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice  with  a  faint  accent  which 
lent  a  certain  charm  and  distinction  to  the  few  words. 
As  she  murmured  that  she  was  glad,  Rosalind  looked 
at  him  curiously.  In  the  darkness  she  found  him 
tall,  slender,  and  well-dressed;  and,  although  his 
features  were  hardly  distinguishable,  she  thought  him 
decidedly  handsome.  She  thanked  him  again  with 
more  profusion,  and  he  bowed  in  return,  rather 
lower  than  most  Americans  do,  and  removed  his  hat 
as  if  it  were  an  honour  and  not  a  hardship.  The 
automobile  rolled  on.  As  its  lights  wheeled  by,  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  pair  of  clear,  green  eyes,  as- 
tonishingly true  in  colour. 


PRELUDE  SEVENTEEN  11$ 

After  dinner  Rosalind  went  into  the  music-room. 
She  knew  that  Benjamin  would  come  to  her  and 
chose  to  meet  him  there,  alone.  When  he  arrived, 
she  was  playing  an  old  French  song,  Maman,  dites- 
moi,  and  humming  the  words.  With  a  flutter  in  her 
heart  she  pretended  not  to  be  aware  of  his  presence 
at  the  door;  for  a  moment  she  entertained  a  wild 
hope  that  the  old  order  of  things  might  be  re-estab- 
lished. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  speak  to  me,  Rose?  " 

The  old,  old  remark,  half  sincere,  half  false,  half 
bathos,  half  really  pathetic;  the  old,  old  appeal  to 
one  beloved,  but  not  loving!  Rosalind  made  a  poor 
attempt  to  cover  her  pretended  ignorance. 

"  Why,  Ben,  I  —  I  didn't  hear  you  come  in." 

"Oh,  I  thought—" 

"  Sit  down.  Here."  She  pointed  out  a  chair 
near  the  piano.  "  Shall  I  play  some  more?  " 

He  did  not  reply.  He  had  hoped  she  would  not 
play.  Music,  especially  the  music  which  she  liked, 
he  had  never  understood  or  cared  for.  But  she  was 
in  the  mood  for  it  and  began  the  Chanson  Indoue,  a 
sad,  haunting,  Russian  song,  which  jarred  so  uncom- 
fortably in  his  ear  that  when  she  was  half  through, 
he  arose  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  fingers.  Drowned 
in  a  little  discord,  the  music  stopped. 

"Benjamin!" 

"  Rose,  please !  We  —  we've  got  to  talk  this 
out." 

He  walked  back  to  his  chair  and  sat  down  on  the 
arm. 

"Well?" 

"  You  remember,  Rose,  what  you  said  to  me  at 
Aiken?" 


n6  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  Yes." 

He  looked  keenly  at  her.  "  Have  you  —  have 
you  tried?  " 

*  Yes,  Ben,  I  have  — " 

She  meant  to  tell  him  the  truth,  but  the  impulse 
failed  her.  She  saw  him  leaning  forward,  his  eyes 
yearning  for  her  love,  his  whole  spirit  dependent  on 
her  lips,  and  hesitated,  frightened. 

"  And  you  —  you  — " 

Turning  away,  tortured  and  unable  to  speak,  she 
clasped  her  hands  together  in  undisguised  nervous- 
ness. 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me,  Ben!  Please!  Why  need 
you?  You  must  not." 

"  I  must,  Rose."  He  drew  himself  up  beside  the 
chair  and  spoke  in  a  hurried  voice.  "  I  cannot  wait. 
I  must  have  some  answer.  You  —  you  don't  under- 
stand the  torture  of  my  mind.  I  have  thrown  every- 
thing in  the  balance,  everything  worth  living  for,  and 
you  outweigh  them  —  all  of  them.  You  know  how 
I  live.  I  know  no  one  well  —  only  you ;  I  have  no 
time  nor  care  for  intimate  friends.  Every  bit  of  my 
heart  is  yours,  Rose.  Tell  me,  what  are  you  going 
to  do  with  it?  " 

She  looked  mutely  at  the  pattern  of  the  carpet; 
she  had  no  words  in  answer. 

'  That  December  day  was  the  commencement  of 
it  all  —  by  the  statue.  You  remember?  You  re- 
proved me  for  my  bad  manners  and  took  me  to 
Brimmer  House;  the  memory  is  very  clear.  You 
began  it;  you  liked  me  then.  You — " 

"  I  like  you  now,  Ben !  " 

"  And  that  is  —  all?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

"  I'm  afraid,  Ben,  that  is  all." 


PRELUDE  SEVENTEEN  117 

He  sank  into  the  chair  and  was  for  a  while  miser- 
ably silent,  then  laughed  coldly. 

"  Well,  I'm  a  coward.  I  can't  seem  to  face  it. 
It's  all  upside  down,  all  wrong  .  .  .  You're  sure 
that  in  time,  Rose,  sure  you  couldn't  come  to  marry 
me?" 

As  he  leaned  forward  with  his  head  sadly  down, 
pity  overflowed  Rosalind's  heart  and  she  weakened. 
She  had  not  forgotten  that  memorable  twilight  on 
which  they  had  met  in  the  Public  Gardens ;  since  then 
she  had  found  cause  to  blame  herself  harshly  for  her 
behaviour.  As  he  had  said,  his  love  was  all  at- 
tributable to  the  manner  in  which  she  had  treated 
him.  Knowing  that  her  duty  was  to  destroy  all 
Benjamin's  hopes,  however  it  might  hurt  him  at  first, 
she  found  herself  incapable  of  performing  that  duty. 
In  recompense  for  the  unhappiness  which  she  had 
caused,  she  held  out  a  straw  of  comfort. 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  am  sure,  Ben,"  she  ventured 
in  a  timid,  kind  voice.  "  I  don't  know.  It's  hard 
—  can't  you  see  what  a  hard  position  I'm  placed  in? 
It  makes  me  feel  that  I'm  a  perfect  beast.  I  am  so 
very  fond  of  you  that  it  is  terrible  to  say  no  " —  she 
hesitated,  unwilling  to  wound,  but  realising  the  neces- 
sity of  frankness  — "  yet  I  cannot  bring  myself  to 
say  yes.  It  may  be  selfish;  it  is,  I  know,  but  it's 
human,  too.  It's  human  not  to  take  a  big  chance 
like  that  with  happiness.  I  can  see  how  much  you 
care  for  me:  it  is  wonderful  to  realise  it!  "  Her 
voice  was  near  breaking  as  she  said  this,  but  she 
strengthened  it  and  went  on.  "  Yet  with  its  beauty, 
it  makes  me  feel,  too,  all  the  more  certain  that  I  am 
right  in  refusing  you.  My  love,  Ben,  is  too  poor  be- 
side yours.  It  is  cruel  enough  when  we  are  friends; 


n8  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

if  we  were  married,  it  would  be  unbearable.  Do 
you  see  what  I  mean?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  see,"  he  answered  slowly. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  make  you  miserable,  Ben.  If  I 
thought  that  some  day,  at  some  future  time  I  could 
feel  differently  —  " 

"  Perhaps  you  will!  " 

"Who  knows?'/ 

"  Rosalind,"  said  Benjamin  frankly,  "  you  have 
known  me  better  than  any  one.  You  have  known 
how  dependent  I  am  on  regularity.  It  has  been  at 
the  bottom  of  all  my  strength  and  happiness.  All 
my  life  has  been  definite;  now  it  is  without  any  cer- 
tainty. I  do  not  know  if  you  love  me ;  I  do  not  know 
if  you  can  love  me.  It  seems  I  must  go  on  suffering 
day  after  day  with  nothing  to  fall  back  on.  Can't 
you  do  something  to  help?  Is  there  no  word,  no 
promise  which  you  can  give  to  strengthen  me?  I 
hate  to  leave  a  thing  hanging  fire.  If  we  could 
only  .  .  .  I'd  almost  like  to  finish  it  all  now,"  he 
went  on  rather  bitterly.  "  But  if  you  think  there  is 
any  chance,  I  will  wait  —  forever." 

"  It  may  be  —  it  is,  I'm  afraid,  a  faint  chance." 

"  No  matter  how  slight,  when  the  business  is  so 
serious.  In  time  it  may  grow  stronger.  It  will 
grow.  Such  things  must  happen  every  day  in  this 
world  where  time  so  often  chooses.  Shall  we  name 
a  day?  It  will  help  me,  and  it  will  give  you  an  op- 
portunity to  decide.  Let  us  make  things  definite, 
Rose." 

She  paused  before  replying.  The  commitment  to 
a  fixed  day  repelled  her  as  an  attempt  to  regulate  the 
one  thing  which  should  know  no  regulation;  yet  at 
the  same  time  she  saw  in  it  a  way  out.  If  she  had 
no  heart  to  destroy  Benjamin's  love  now  by  a  single 


PRELUDE  SEVENTEEN  119 

stroke,  in  the  weeks  which  must  elapse  before  the 
appointed  day  arrived  there  would  be  many  oppor- 
tunities to  discourage  his  affection.  What  if  the 
process  and  period  of  this  attrition  be  distinctly  hard 
for  her?  It  was  a  just  punishment,  falling  on  her 
more  heavily  than  on  Benjamin.  By  a  variety  of 
means  his  love  might  be  cooled;  by  gradual  and  in- 
creasing neglect,  by  showing  herself  to  him  in  un- 
pleasant lights,  by  forcing  herself  to  be  not  herself. 
At  the  cost  of  their  friendship  it  might  be  done. 
But  was  not  their  friendship  ended  now? 

"  I  will,  Ben.     What  day  will  you  choose?  " 

"  Let  it  not  be  too  near  at  hand.  The  first  of 
June?" 

"  The  first  of  June,"  she  repeated.  "  Until  then, 
let's  try  and  forget  that  we're  anything  but  great 
friends." 

He  took  her  hand. 

"  Thank  you,  Rose.  I  will  do  my  best,  for  you 
have  done  yours.  .  .  .  Good  night." 

He  went  quietly  out  of  the  room,  leaving  her  at 
the  piano,  staring  fixedly  at  nothing  in  particular. 
Had  she  done  her  best? 

Rosalind  had  left  Boston  in  the  slush  and  sleet  of 
a  vindictive  March;  she  came  back  to  a  city  bathed  in 
sunshine.  As  she  walked  to  Louisburg  Square  the 
morning  after  her  return,  she  discovered  in  the  Public 
Gardens  not  one  robin  but  a  dozen,  carolling  away 
with  the  importance  of  all  harbingers  bright  prom- 
ises of  spring.  There  were  birds  in  the  Square,  too, 
whispering  in  its  old  ear  tropical  messages;  they  flut- 
tered from  the  wrought  iron  fence  to  the  grass,  peer- 
ing up  green  and  fresh  through  the  stubble  of  the 
old  year,  or  sought  in  the  ragged  elms,  whose  tops 


120  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

were  feathering  out  into  a  reddish  haze,  aerial 
boudoirs  in  which  to  preen  their  feathers.  How 
monstrously  spick  and  span  the  Square  appeared ! 
It  seemed  as  if  little  hands  had  dusted  each  indi- 
vidual cobble-stone,  polished  each  bar  of  the  black 
fence,  and  put  the  two  white  statues  into  the  launder- 
ing-tub  of  nature.  Across  the  green  the  houses 
smiled  like  a  double  row  of  hibernators  recently  re- 
awakened to  find  the  world  a  most  inviting  place. 
Rosalind  had  inherited  the  Copley  affection  for  the 
Square.  From  her  childhood  she  had  found  it  a 
second  home,  a  haven  of  charm  and  adventure,  in 
all  seasons  to  be  loved,  but  especially  in  spring  to  be 
admired.  Who  does  not  think  the  coming  of  spring 
incomparable?  What  is  wonderful  in  the  country 
is  the  more  amazing  in  the  city.  That  the  Invisible 
Renovator  each  April  transform  the  cold,  quiet 
gloom  of  this  old  pocket  of  the  metropolis  into  the 
garden  greenness  of  June  was  a  source  of  never-end- 
ing joy  to  Rosalind.  To  see  the  country  reborn  at 
spring  is  to  see  only  the  material  side  of  the  season, 
the  new  crops,  the  fast-opening  buds,  the  waving  hay; 
but  to  see  the  dull,  hard  city  annually  rejuvenated  is 
to  see  the  most  unnecessary  and  beautiful  light  prodi- 
gally shed  in  uncongenial  grimness. 

She  mounted  the  steps  of  8  Louisburg  Square 
with  her  happiness  dancing  in  her  eyes.  As  the  door 
yielded  without  the  necessity  of  ringing,  she  thought 
that  she  heard  the  sound  of  music  and  listened  for  a 
moment,  dumbfounded.  Music  in  8  Louisburg 
Square?  Some  one  playing  upon  her  piano?  It 
was  a  thing  as  unexpected,  as  impossible  to  believe 
as  the  wildest  range  of  fancy.  Closing  the  door, 
she  advanced  into  the  great,  formal  hall  with  a  silent 
step.  She  recognised  the  melody  as  the  seventeenth 


PRELUDE  SEVENTEEN  121 

prelude  of  Chopin,  the  favourite  of  herself  and  of 
her  godfather.  Whoever  the  player  was,  the  play- 
ing was  consummately  skilful,  and  her  keen  ear  told 
her  as  she  listened  that  years  of  training  and  a  deep 
appreciation  guided  the  unknown  fingers  in  the  ad- 
joining room.  Curiosity  impelled  her  towards  the 
doorway.  As  the  melody  swayed  softly  upward 
to  the  commanding  note  of  the  prelude,  she  brushed 
aside  the  heavy  hangings  at  the  door  and  looked 
eagerly  in  the  direction  of  the  piano  —  straight  into 
the  green  eyes  of  the  young  man  who  the  evening 
before  had  rescued  the  woman  from  her  automobile ! 
His  hand  was  raised  for  a  heavy  chord  when  he 
caught  sight  of  the  figure  in  the  doorway.  Rosalind 
saw  him  spring  to  his  feet  in  amazement,  leaving  the 
melody  to  die  midway. 

"  Oh,  please  finish  it !  "  she  cried  impulsively. 

The  young  man  hesitated ;  then,  with  a  smile  com- 
plied. 

Rosalind  remained  standing,  framed  against  the 
dark  hanging  like  a  vibrant  figure  of  light  stamped 
there  by  the  gods.  During  the  completion  of  the 
prelude  she  had  an  opportunity  to  examine  the 
stranger,  and  found  him  a  strikingly  handsome  figure 
as  he  sat  before  the  great  piano.  Morning  sunlight 
streamed  in  at  a  window  beside  him,  glinting  on  the 
top  of  his  dark,  curly  hair,  and  making  the  green 
waves  sparkle  in  his  eyes.  Though  bizarre,  his  fea- 
tures were  undeniably  handsome,  and  the  carriage 
of  his  thin,  graceful  body  lent  distinction  to  his  ap- 
pearance. What  an  anomaly  was  this  poetic  figure 
in  the  staidness  of  her  godfather's  house!  In  appar- 
ent oblivion  of  his  surroundings  he  lingered  over  the 
haunting  refrain,  and  not  until  the  prelude  was 
finished  did  he  look  again  in  Rosalind's  direction. 


122  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

The  quizzical  expression  on  his  face  made  her  smile 
as  she  advanced  into  the  room. 

"Isn't  that  prelude  wonderful?  I  try  to  play 
it,  too,  and  long  to  play  it  well.  You  — " 

"  I  found  the  music  here,"  said  the  young  man  in 
the  same  low  voice  of  the  afternoon  before. 

"  It  is  mine." 

The  young  man  raised  his  eyebrows  in  surprise. 

"  You  will  forgive  me  for  using  it?  I  could  not 
resist  the  temptation.  This  prelude  is  full  of  memo- 
ries for  me;  years  ago  I  heard  my  mother  play  it. 
It  was  her  favourite." 

Rosalind  gasped  involuntarily.  She  appreciated 
now  the  mourning  of  the  young  man  and  his  slight 
accent.  In  a  flash  she  combined  the  facts  that  this 
prelude  was  beloved  by  her  godfather  and  the 
favourite  of  this  stranger's  mother.  To  solve  the 
riddle  of  his  name  was  simple. 

"  You  must  be  a  Mr.  Rolland!  " 

With  an  astonished  glance  the  stranger  assented. 

"  It  sounds  rather  illogical  to  draw  that  conclu- 
sion, I  suppose,  but  my  godfather  once  told  me  that 
this  prelude  was  much  loved  by  Madame  Rolland." 

'Your  godfather?" 

"  Uncle  —  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton.  Hasn't  he 
spoken  of  me  to  you  ?  " 

The  young  man  smiled.  Rosalind  liked  his  smile ; 
it  fascinated  her. 

"  He  is  not  very  —  talkative.  In  a  week  he  has 
said  but  little,  and  not  a  word  of  you." 

"  How  like  Uncle  Sing-Sing !  I  call  him  that,  al- 
though he's  only  father's  second  cousin.  He's  the 
dearest  and  most  uncommunicative  godfather  in  the 
world!" 

"  You  must  have  been  surprised  to  find  me  here." 


PRELUDE  SEVENTEEN  123 

"  Surprised !  I  never  have  had  a  surprise  in  my 
life  to  compare  with  that  of  entering  this  house  and 
hearing  music.  I  truly  expect  to  see  you  go  up  in 
a  cloud  of  smoke  like  a  genii  at  any  minute !  " 

"I  shan't  do  that;  it's  too  attractive  here." 

"You  like  it  then?" 

"  Like  it !  I  never  believed  there  was  anything 
like  this  in  America.  I  had  always  thought  it  a 
cauldron  of  cities  and  factories,  smoking  and  grind- 
ing away.  But  this  —  this  is  a  bit  of  the  older, 
calmer  world.  I  have  explored  Boston  during  this 
last  week  and  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  of  beauty 
and  interest  Fve  discovered.  Will  you  show  me 
more?  " 

"  You  can  probably  tell  me  more  about  Boston  by 
this  time  than  I  can  you.  It's  always  the  stranger 
that  is  the  best  informed." 

"  There  must  be  many  out  of  the  way  pockets, 
though  — " 

"I'll  try,"  replied  Rosalind. ^  "We'll  make  a 
bargain.  I'll  be  your  Baedeker,  if  you'll  be  my  — 
Orpheus !  " 

"Agreed!" 

"  You've  come  at  the  best  time  of  year;  in  a  few 
weeks  the  country  will  be  glorious.  You  must  come 
out  to  the  farm." 

"  Anywhere.  And  will  you  introduce  me  to  some 
people?  Your  godfather  has  been  most  kind,  but 
outside  of  Edouard  and  a  Mrs.  Copley  —  oh!  and 
Dr.  Gary  —  I  have  seen  no  one." 

"That's  my  mother,  that  Mrs.  Copley!  I  hope 
you  got  along  well  together." 

"Splendidly!  It  worried  her  that  I  spoke  Eng- 
lish so  well." 

"  I  don't  wonder;  you  do." 


i24  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  I  went  to  school  at  Cheltenham.  My  grand- 
mother being  American,  my  mother  wanted  me  to 
speak  her  tongue  well.  Since  she  could  not  part 
with  me  for  America,  England  was  the  substi- 
tute." 

"Is  Mr.  Singleton  upstairs?" 

"  I  suppose  so;  he  has  not  yet  come  down." 

"  Do  be  Orpheus  again  till  he  descends!  I'll  re- 
pay you  some  day  double-fold." 

Mr.  Singleton  was  indeed  upstairs.  He  was  sit- 
ting by  a  window  with  almost  an  expression  of  eager- 
ness on  his  pale  face.  Edouard,  as  he  adjusted  his 
footstool,  was  speaking  to  him. 

"  They  are  down  by  the  piano,  sir,  and  it's  my 
opinion,  since  you  ask  it,  that  they've  taken  quite  a 
fancy  to  each  other." 


CHAPTER  XI 

NEW  THOUGHTS   FOR   OLD 

IT  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Rosalind 
walked  slowly  home.  A  high  wind  had 
sprung  up  which  tore  at  the  branches  of  the 
trees,  making  them  wave  and  shiver  in  the  dying 
light.  Head  down  she  struggled  along,  busily  turn- 
ing over  and  over  in  her  mind  the  novelty  of  a  hand- 
some and  talented  young  man  in  the  house  of  her 
godfather.  In  her  childhood  8  Louisburg  Square 
had  been  something  of  a  fairy  castle,  something  of  a 
Golconda  where  lay  concealed  innumerable  beauties 
awaiting  only  an  adventurous  spirit  to  discover  them. 
But  here  was  a  novelty  more  diverting  than  the  four- 
foot  doll  which  had  done  everything  but  talk,  until 
Mr.  Quincy  endeavoured  to  endow  it  with  that 
quality  by  a  mechanical  operation  involving  more 
ingenuity  than  technique;  here  was  a  surprise  more 
dumbfounding  than  the  tiny  dog  which  had  one 
Christmas  popped  out  of  a  large  plum  pudding;  here 
for  her  entertainment  was  come  to  visit  the  son  of 
the  greatest  tenor  in  the  world! 

Rosalind  laughed  excitedly  to  herself.  The 
whistling  wind  made  her  thoughts  fly  fast ;  it  sang  by 
her  lips  and  whirled  along  in  its  rough  embrace  the 
words  she  murmured  half  to  herself  and  half  aloud. 

"  And  Uncle  Sing-Sing !  Why,  he  couldn't  take 
his  eyes  off  him !  There  never  was  anything  like  it. 
Calls  him  Eric,  dotes  on  him,  on  his  music,  on  his 

125 


126  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

architect's  sketches,  on  everything  about  him.  I'm 
not  in  it.  My  poor  efforts  at  the  piano  will  never 
be  favoured  again."  She  laughed  whimsically. 
"  How  well  he  does  play;  I'm  sure  there  were  tears 
in  my  eyes  over  his  Caprice  Fienncise.  .  .  .  As  a 
rule  I  don't  like  foreigners.  There  was  that  nasty 
cad  whom  Mrs.  Bryce  dragged  about  with  her  — 
the  Count  de  Ricrac.  I  hated  the  little  beast;  yet  he 
would  kiss  my  hand  and  talk  about  the  stars.  And 
after  all  he  turned  out  to  be  somebody's  valet. 
Foreigners  are  always  much  nicer  in  their  homes.  I 
wonder  why?  But  Mr.  Rolland  is  certainly  dif- 
ferent. I  hope  he's  going  to  stay  and  be  ever  so 
interesting  with  his  music;  I  forgot  to  ask  Uncle 
Sing-Sing.  .  .  .  He  said  his  grandmother  was  an 
American.  I'm  glad  of  that;  it  doesn't  make  him 
seem  so  far  —  I  beg  your  pardon !  " 

Obsessed  with  her  thoughts,  she  had  collided  with 
two  ladies  whom  the  wind  was  sweeping  down  Ar- 
lington Street. 

"  Oh !  Miss  Hepplethwaite,  do  excuse  me !  In 
this  wind  one  cannot  see  at  all." 

"How  do  you  do,  Rosalind?     I  hope  your  trip 
to  Aiken  benefited  you?  " 
*  Yes,  thank  you." 

"  And  how  is  your  dear  mamma?  " 

"And  your  dear  papa?"  echoed  the  younger 
sister. 

Even  in  the  whistling  wind  an  indefinable  and  un- 
ruffled primness  clung  about  the  two  spinsters,  and 
they  asked  their  invariable  questions  with  as  much 
cold  interest  as  if  they  were  all  three  meeting  in  the 
most  sedate  drawing-room  in  Boston.  Rosalind 
murmured  some  reply. 

"  I  haven't  seen  you  for  such  a  long  time,"  went 


NEW  THOUGHTS  FOR  OLD        127 

on  the  older  Miss  Hepplethwaite.  "  You've  been 
with  your  godfather,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Yes.     He  came  home  before  me." 

"  We  are  most  curious,  my  dear  Rosalind,  to  dis- 
cover who  the  very  handsome  young  man  is  that 
calls  on  your  godfather.  Joan  and  I  have  observed 
him  entering  the  house  several  times.  He  is  not  a 
cousin — ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Rosalind,  "  not  a  member  of  the 
family  at  all.  He  is  the  son  of  Lucien  Rolland  — 
the  tenor,  you  know.  His  mother  was  a  great  friend 
of  my  godfather,  and  at  her  death  she  expressed  a 
wish  that  her  son  come  to  America.  He  is  a 
most — "  In  the  excitement  of  her  interest  in  the 
stranger  it  was  on  Rosalind's  lips  to  say  "  charming 
young  man,"  but  remembering  the  ears,  eyes,  and 
tongues  before  her  she  concluded  — "  beautiful 
pianist.  He  played  for  us  to-day." 

"  Is  that  his  profession?  " 

"  No."  Rosalind  scented  cold  disapproval  in  the 
question.  "  He  is  an  architect,  and  a  very  excellent 
one,  too.  My  godfather  told  me  that  he  won  the 
Grand  Prix  at  the  Beaux  Arts  two  years  running." 

"  The  French  are  so  clever !  Their  esprit  is  re- 
markable." 

"And  their  elan!"  added  Miss  Joan,  not  to  be 
outdone. 

"  His  grandmother  was  an  American.  He  speaks 
English  perfectly,  with  just  a  shade  of  accent." 

"  He  must  be  very  diverting.  I  am  afraid  that  I 
shall  have  to  keep  an  eye  on  my  sister;  Joan  is  so 
impressionable." 

"  Oh,  Jane,  how  can  you?  "  The  younger  Miss 
Hepplethwaite  simulated  coyness  with  the  full  bene- 
fit of  forty  years'  experience. 


128  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"And  your  poor  dear  uncle,  Mr.  Quincy!  He 
was  so  worried  over  your  godfather  at  Asheville 
that  it  was  pitiful  to  behold.  We  tried  to  comfort 
him.  When  he  departed  for  Bermuda,  he  sent  us  a 
sweet  present." 

"  Too  thoughtful  of  him,"  murmured  Miss  Joan. 

"  And  a  cable.  Do  you  think  the  Governor  will 
really  appoint  him  ?  Mr.  Hereford  endeavoured  to 
induce  Joan  to  believe  that  the  Governor's  staff  had 
no  political  importance,  but  after  what  Jos  —  Mr. 
Quincy  has  said,  we  understand  fully  its  responsibili- 
ties. He  was  quite  justified  in  leaving  at  such  a 
time." 

"  It  was  imperative,"  said  Miss  Joan. 

"  I  am  certain  it  was,"  Rosalind  assured  them,  re- 
membering with  an  inward  smile  the  more  cogent 
reason  for  her  uncle's  departure. 

The  wind  had  become  so  boisterous  that  the 
Misses  Hepplethwaite,  having  acquired  that  in- 
formation necessary  for  the  concoction  of  a  little 
scandal,  took  their  leave,  begging  Rosalind  some  day 
to  bring  the  stranger  to  talk  French  with  them.  As 
Rosalind  watched  the  wind  blow  them  across  the 
street,  lady-like  even  with  their  skirts  fluttering  about 
their  knees,  a  sense  of  their  pitiful  inutility  came 
over  her.  If  they  had  only  married,  they  might 
have  made  decent  enough  wives;  in  a  crowd  of 
modern  married  women  they  would  have  passed 
muster.  But  they  had  waited  too  long  and  too  care- 
fully. They  had  ignored  opportunity's  knock,  be- 
cause it  had  not  been  loud  and  distinct;  now  every 
moment  their  ear  was  at  the  door  to  detect  the  faint- 
est scratching.  As  she  turned  towards  home,  Rosa- 
lind told  herself  that,  God  willing,  such  a  fate  would 
never  be  hers. 


NEW  THOUGHTS  FOR  OLD         129 

Hearing  a  murmur  of  many  voices  at  tea  in  the 
living-room,  she  went  quietly  up  to  her  own  chamber, 
a  pretty  blue  and  white  room,  companionably  quiet. 
She  removed  her  hat,  smoothed  her  golden  hair  in 
front  of  the  mirror,  and  then  wandered  to  her  desk 
and  sat  down,  still  busy  with  her  thoughts.  How 
pleasant  it  was  to  sit  in  her  comfortable  arm-chair 
and  think  of  the  walk  which  she  had  taken  with 
Eric  Holland  along  the  Esplanade!  His  typically 
French  nature  had  amused  and  charmed  her.  The 
French  in  their  happiness  and  sorrow  are  children, 
in  their  courage  giants,  in  their  talent  geniuses,  in 
their  sympathy  angels.  The  remembrance  of  the 
walk  called  to  her  mind  a  promise  to  take  him  to  a 
concert  of  Schumann-Heink's  the  next  afternoon. 
As  she  reached  for  a  pencil  to  note  down  the  engage- 
ment, her  eye  fell  upon  her  calendar,  a  loose-leaf  af- 
fair with  a  separate  page  for  each  day  of  the  year. 
On  going  to  bed  the  night  before  she  had  left  it 
turned  over  to  June  ist;  written  on  that  page  in 
large  bold  letters :  ANSWER  BEN  ! 

Rosalind  stiffened  in  her  chair.  The  day  long 
she  had  not  thought  of  Gary.  Engrossed  by  the 
stranger  from  across  the  sea,  she  had  lost  sight  of 
her  troubles  in  his  happy  usurpation,  and  had  drawn 
idle  fancies  strangely  at  variance  with  an  attempt  to 
return  Benjamin's  love.  When  Damocles  observed 
a  blade  trembling  above  him  upon  a  single  thread, 
he  took  no  pleasure  in  the  banquet  which  Dionysius 
had  spread  for  his  consumption;  so  Rosalind's  fond 
imaginings  soon  lost  their  charm  with  the  vexing 
promise  to  Benjamin  staring  her  in  the  eye.  She 
arose  and  walked  pettishly  about  the  room,  injured 
and  confined.  How  foolish  to  have  made  that 
agreement  with  Benjamin  in  contradiction  to  her 


1 30  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

first  impulse!  She  would  not  consent  to  be  forced 
into  anything  by  a  man;  however  masterful  he  might 
be,  Benjamin  could  not  compel  her  to  love  him.  In 
aggrieved  revolt  she  forgot  that  without  her  own 
encouragement  he  would  never  have  entered  into  her 
life,  that  for  all  his  concern  she  would  have  been 
as  free  as  the  libertine  air.  A  low  knock  at  the 
door  interrupted  her  petulant  walk.  It  was  Paris. 

"It's  Mr.  Gary,  Miss  Rosalind.  I'll  tell  him 
you'll  be  down,  shan't  I  ?  " 

Still  annoyed,  Rosalind  exclaimed,  "  No,  Paris, 
stop!  Tell  him  I've  —  I've  a  headache;  I'm  not 
coming  down." 

She  turned  away  toward  the  windows. 
'  Yes,  miss.     I'm  sorry  you're  not  well." 

When  Paris  was  gone,  she  was  angrier  with  her- 
self than  she  had  been  with  Benjamin.  She  had  no 
headache;  this  was  nothing  more  or  less  than  the  be- 
haviour of  a  spoiled  child,  and  if  she  disliked  one 
thing  more  than  another,  it  was  the  petty  selfishness 
of  life.  Pricked  by  an  excellent  conscience,  she 
opened  the  door  and  hurried  down  the  hall  to  the 
stairs,  on  which  she  intercepted  Paris  and  left  him, 
gasping  at  the  suddenness  of  her  change  in  health, 
with  a  glorious  tidbit  for  pantry  gossip. 

There  were  some  dozen  people  in  the  drawing- 
room.  She  caught  sight  of  Benjamin  pinioned  in 
his  chair  by  a  lady  whose  fantastical  garb  and  disar- 
rayed ringlets  declared  her  to  be  one  of  those  intel- 
lectual females  whom  society  lionises  and  —  in  secret 
—  laughs  at.  From  such  captivity  she  rescued  him 
with  a  graceful  facility  which  was  the  admiration  of 
Benjamin  and  the  confounding  of  his  blue-stocking 
interlocutor. 

"  She  was  telling  me  about  the  soul,"  he  mur- 


NEW  THOUGHTS  FOR  OLD        131 

mured  weakly,  as  Rosalind  led  him  into  the  quiet 
music  room,  "  about  the  soul,  and  Maeterlinck,  and 
silence.  There  was  a  lot  about  silence,  I  remember, 
and  its  beauty." 

"You  know  how  a  python  mesmerises  a  rabbit? 
When  I  dragged  you  away,  you  were  in  the  last 
hypnotic  stage." 

"  Thanks  a  thousand  times  for  the  rescue.  I 
thought  I  saw  you  come  in,  so  I  — " 

"  I  have  been  at  —  at  the  Square  all  day." 

"  Did  you  find  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  well?  " 

"About  the  same.     The  day  —  passed  quickly." 

Rosalind  let  slip  an  opportunity  to  tell  Benjamin 
about  Eric  Rolland.  A  month  earlier  she  would 
have  instantly  related  the  whole  story  to  him,  but 
now  she  was  glad  to  postpone  the  moment. 

"  How  does  it  seem  to  get  back  to  the  office,  Ben? 
Have  you  finished  your  New  Orleans  business?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not.  I  may  have  to  go  back  soon 
—  very  soon." 

Rosalind  started  involuntarily. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  The  words  sounded  con- 
victionless  to  her,  and  she  repeated  them  in  another 
tone.  "  I'm  sorry.  How  soon?  " 

"  In  a  week  or  so;  and  it  will  take  another  month, 
too,  I'm  afraid." 

Rosalind  received  this  piece  of  news,  so  painful 
for  Benjamin  to  relate,  with  a  criminal  sense  of  in- 
ward happiness.  She  forced  herself  to  murmur, 
"Really?" 

"  In  one  way,"  he  went  on,  "  it  will  be  a  good 
thing.  You  will  be  absolutely  free  to  decide  for 
yourself.  From  New  Orleans  my  influence  can  be 
but  small  and  by  June  first  you  ought  to  know  as  defi- 
nitely as  —  as  I  do  now,  where  we  stand." 


132  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

In  dangerous  waters  so  soon!  Rosalind  walked 
nervously  to  the  fire-place,  crying  to  herself,  "  Oh, 
Ben,  Ben,  why  must  you  always  bring  it  up?" 
Aloud,  however,  she  assented.  "  Yes,  it  will  be 
fairer."  After  an  uncomfortable  pause,  during 
which  the  wind  rattled  in  the  chimney,  she  added, 
"  Listen  to  the  wind.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
it  blow  the  Hepplethwaites  across  Arlington 
Street!" 

After  all,  there  is  nothing  like  the  weather!  The 
gentle  rain  of  Heaven  which  falls  upon  the  just  and 
the  unjust  has  watered  many  a  backward  conversa- 
tion and  brought  it  to  full  growth.  Far  from  being 
the  infirmity  of  talk,  the  weather  is  often  its  strength 
and  guide.  As  Rosalind's  friend  of  friends,  Camilla 
Cabot,  often  told  her:  there  is  nothing  like  a  rain- 
storm to  dampen  sophomoric  effusions,  and  the  mere 
mention  of  wind  will  blow  Byron  and  all  his  verses 
into  the  next  county.  With  Benjamin  the  well-worn 
ruse  succeeded;  he  turned  to  his  law. 

"  It  seems  good  to  be  at  my  desk  again.  I  like 
to  work  methodically  as  you  know;  in  the  South 
business  is  transacted  according  to  the  thermometer." 

"  You  mustn't  work  yourself  to  death,  Ben.  I 
know  how  ambitious  you  are." 

She  spoke  kindly  and  softly,  as  she  had  often 
spoken  in  the  past,  suddenly  moved  by  a  wave  of 
tenderness.  Perhaps  Benjamin  noticed  a  subtle 
change  in  her  tone,  for  he  glanced  towards  her  as 
if  pleased  by  her  words. 

'  Thank  you,  Rose.  Ambition  isn't  worth  a  con- 
tinental without  health  to  back  it  up.  That's  why  I 
lay  so  much  value  in  method.  Regularity  spells 
health." 

Rosalind  shrugged  her  shoulders.     His  desire  to 


NEW  THOUGHTS  FOR  OLD        133 

standardise  everything  had  long  been  a  contentious 
subject  between  them. 

"  I  don't  believe  any  great  man  was  ever  regu- 
lar!" 

"  How  about  Edison  and  John  Marshall?  How 
about  — " 

"  I  don't  mean  that  kind.  Look  at  Shelley  or  Dr. 
Johnson  —  or  Maeterlinck,"  she  added  with  a  laugh. 
"  Do  you  suppose  they  were  regular?  Bah !  Don't 
be  a  dry-as-dust,  Ben!  Trollope  was  your  perfect 
machine.  What  of  him?  However  the  world  is 
amused  by  what  he  wrote,  it  knows  exactly  where  to 
put  him." 

Benjamin,  who  did  not  know  exactly  where  to  put 
him,  resigned  literature  to  irregularity  with  a  wave 
of  the  hand. 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  literary  men  —  they  may 
live  as  they  please.  I  was  thinking  of  great  prac- 
tical men,  men  of  affairs.  If  I  am  to  succeed  in  poli- 
tics, let  us  say,  I  must  have  method;  for  who  ever 
heard  of  a  famous  statesman  who  was  not  the  soul 
of  system?  " 

"  Daniel  Webster !  "  cried  Rosalind  triumphantly. 
"  He  never  could  get  up  until  ten  in  the  morning  and 
then  it  was  usually  to  drink  whiskey.  *  It  is  a  small 
college,  but  there  are  those  who  love  it,'  "  she  quoted 
gaily.  "  Now  what?  Now  where  are  you?  " 

Benjamin  smiled  with  such  infuriating  indulgence 
that  she  suddenly  wondered  if  he  ever  thought  of 
her  as  "  little  woman,"  a  term  of  endearment  which 
she  despised.  His  paternal  condescension  seemed 
sometimes  to  betray  what  might  be  a  mental  applica- 
tion of  the  term. 

'  Well,  never  mind;  we  won't  argue  about  it  until 
I  can  array  more  facts  on  my  side.     You  women  al- 


i34  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

ways  have  the  faculty  of  dragging  in  exceptions  or 
long-haired  literary  men  to  win  a  victory.  By  the 
way,  to-morrow  afternoon  Father  is  to  show  me 
certain  parts  of  the  Longwood  Hospital  in  great 
detail  on  a  legal  question.  You  have  long  wanted 
the  opportunity  to  see  it  all;  won't  you  come? 
Father  would  love  to  have  you." 

"  I'm  so  sorry,  Ben.  To-morrow  is  the  Schu- 
mann-Heink  concert  and  I've  promised  to  go  with 
some  one." 

In  past  days  the  projected  trip  to  the  Longwood, 
then  newly  completed,  had  been  a  source  of  mutual 
anticipation;  if  the  opportunity  came,  nothing  could 
deter  them.  Yet  now  Benjamin  found  Rosalind 
with  a  ready  excuse. 

"You  couldn't  give  up  the  concert,  I  suppose?" 
he  asked  rather  stiffly. 

"  I'm  afraid  not,  Ben.     It's  a  —  well,  I  couldn't." 

Being  in  no  mood  to  introduce  a  troublesome 
third  party,  Rosalind  let  slip  a  second  opportunity  to 
speak  of  Eric  Rolland.  To  herself  she  declared 
that  things  being  as  unhappy  as  they  were,  that 
bridge  she  would  not  cross  until  she  came  to  it. 

"  I'm  —  awfully  sorry." 

Benjamin  rolled  all  his  unhappiness  into  this  little, 
halting  sentence.  Like  all  men  new  at  love  —  or 
old,  for  that  matter  —  he  intensified  this  minor  re- 
fusal, probably  perfectly  reasonable,  and  suffered  as 
regards  not  the  true  object  but  its  magnified  image. 
But  almost  immediately  his  manner  changed;  he  be- 
came solicitous,  appealing. 

"  Forgive  me,  Rose,"  he  said  with  humble  in- 
genuousness, "I  did  not  mean  to  speak  like  that: 
it  was  not  playing  the  game  to  you.  I  forgot,  for  a 
minute ;  you'll  forgive  me  ?  " 


NEW  THOUGHTS  FOR  OLD        135 

It  was  hard  to  nod  and  say  yes,  when  conscience 
mocked  within.  For  what  need  she  forgive  him? 
For  letting  her  see  that  there  was  a  love  in  his  heart 
which  knew  no  master?  For  a  rare,  God-sent  im- 
pulse proudly  to  array  before  the  world  his 
firstling  thought  untarnished  by  mortal  reconsider- 
ing? She  turned  away,  as  if  his  love  were  a  blank 
abyss  before  her  feet. 

"  Do  not  think  me  brutal  or  unsympathetic  — " 
Her  hands  flew  forward  to  disclaim.  "  No,  listen, 
Rose.  I  would  not  have  you  marry  me  without  af- 
fection :  that  would  be  a  sin.  The  world  is  too  un- 
happy now  that  ever  we  forget  our  duty."  He 
spoke  with  the  ingrained  rectitude  of  a  Puritanic 
ancestry  as  fine  as  that  of  Rosalind  herself,  with  that 
inflexible  excellence  of  morals  which  bends  backward 
in  its  walk  through  life.  "  I  do  not  ask  for  such  a 
pledge ;  you  know  that.  I  only  pray  that  love  come 
in  your  heart,  that  you  try;  and  you  do  try,  I  know, 
because  I  understand  your  strength  and  beauty.  It 
is  I  who  forget." 

Rosalind  was  not  aware  that  he  had  quitted  the 
room  until  she  heard  his  firm  step  ring  upon  the 
flagstones  in  the  hall.  A  conflict  of  impulse  and 
emotion  shook  her  body. 

"  Ben,"  she  called;  and  in  the  same  moment 
snapped  close  her  lips,  her  hands  pressed  over  them, 
her  eyes  wide.  Had  he  heard?  With  her  whole 
body  she  listened.  .  .  .  The  footsteps  still  sounded, 
fainter  and  more  faint.  With  a  sudden,  half- 
ashamed  relief  she  crumpled  back  into  her  arm-chair. 
After  all,  there  was  nothing  to  tell  him  yet,  she  reas- 
sured herself;  it  was  better  that  he  go  and  she  look 
into  the  fire  and  think  on  —  Orpheus. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AFTER   THE    CONCERT 

THE  concert  was  a  great  success.  Half  of  the 
enjoyment  derived  from  music  lies  in  sharing 
it  with  a  congenial  mind.  To  the  amateur 
sympathetic  response  is  everything,  and  Rosalind, 
after  a  legion  of  youthful  escorts  who  took  music 
only  on  sufferance,  found  the  keenest  delight  in  a 
companion  who  understood  and  adored  that  which 
she  found  moving.  Each  song  to  Eric  was  definitive 
of  some  mood;  and  thanks  to  a  long  schooling  in 
music,  he  could  readily  interpret  and  explain  what 
Rosalind  only  felt.  Between  the  songs  the  con- 
versation turned  on  his  celebrated  father.  To  Eric 
he  was  a  demigod.  The  memory  of  the  tenor's 
early  triumphs,  when,  a  boy  of  ten,  Eric  had  stood 
in  the  wings  to  hear  whole  theatres  rise  in  tempestu- 
ous acclamation,  lingered  in  his  mind  and  threw 
about  his  father  as  if  it  were  real  the  artificial 
glamour  of  the  stage.  As  a  father,  he  had  never  ex- 
isted. A  man  singing  now  at  the  Covent  Garden, 
now  in  Buenos  Ayres,  and  the  next  month  in  Berlin 
is  ever  more  of  a  luxury  than  a  parent  to  his  child. 
To  the  son's  mind  the  father  was  always  the  re- 
splendent Duke  in  "  Rigoletto,"  glittering  with 
jewels,  or  Rhadames  on  his  triumphal  car,  a  station 
in  which  even  ugly  tenors  appeared  to  advantage  and 
one  in  which  his  father  had  been  strikingly  hand- 
some. Upon  these  stories  of  triumph  Rosalind  fed 

136 


AFTER  THE  CONCERT  137 

till  her  imagination  could  almost  picture  the  La 
Scala  in  a  delirium  of  excitement;  she  felt  that  at 
last  she  had  met  with  some  one  to  whom  she  might 
confide  her  appreciations  and  yearnings. 

Woman  cannot  be  understood;  there  are  two  parts 
to  her  which  play  hide-and-seek  for  domination. 
One  part  requires  strength,  muscles,  physique,  and 
worships  a  Hercules,  though  his  head  be  filled  with 
bran  and  his  feet  be  clay;  the  other  sets  eyes  upon 
the  soul  and  stares  till  blindness  comes,  infatuated 
by  some  shred  of  genius  discovered  in  an  effeminate 
ass.  If  the  woman  marries  the  Colossus,  she  de- 
spises the  sterility  of  his  soul;  if  she  marries  the 
man  who  understands  her  heart,  she  despises  the 
sterility  of  his  body.  Whatever  happens,  the  part 
which  has  not  conquered  makes  life  miserable  for 
the  part  which  has,  and  at  forty  the  giant's  wife  has 
an  affair  with  a  dream-eyed  poet,  whose  own  wife 
in  turn  is  playing  golf  in  the  mountains  with  the 
champion  of  three  states.  Fine  women  do  not  go  to 
these  extremes.  Rosalind  had  always  found  Ben- 
jamin insufficient,  had  known  from  the  first  that  her 
heart  required  more  love  than  was  his  to  give. 
When  his  foot  went  to  sleep  during  Melba's  singing 
of  Tosti's  "  Good->bye,  Summer,"  she  suddenly  re- 
alised that  at  forty  he  would  be  unbearable.  How 
different  it  was  with  Eric!  She  glanced  at  him, 
leaning  forward  with  intense  interest  in  the  match- 
less voice,  and  smiled  a  contented  smile.  Compari- 
sons are  never  odious  to  the  one  who  makes  them. 

When  the  concert  was  over,  they  walked  back  in 
the  soft  light  of  late  afternoon  to  29  Common- 
wealth Avenue,  where  Mrs.  Copley  was  sitting  with 
Rosalind's  young  brother,  Jack,  just  returned  from 
St.  Matthew's  for  the  April  holidays.  He  was  one 


138  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

of  the  familiar  type  which  our  best  boarding-schools, 
furnished  with  the  right  material,  can  and  do  turn 
out  in  large  quantities:  attractive,  clean,  high- 
tempered,  and  obstinately  opposed  to  the  cultiva- 
tion of  his  mind.  For  his  scholastic  deficiencies 
Mrs.  Copley  blamed  the  school,  Mr.  Copley  the 
boy,  and  Jack  himself  the  whole  ridiculous  educa- 
tional system,  which  he  chose  to  characterise  as 
"  bughouse." 

"  How  was  Jack's  report?  "  asked  Rosalind,  when 
her  young  brother  had  disappeared. 

Mrs.  Copley  made  a  grimace. 

"  Don't  speak  of  reports,  dear.  Your  father's 
been  lecturing  me  all  the  afternoon  about  them  — 
me,  mind  you.  Now  he's  gone  off  to  the  Club 
completely  exhausted,  leaving  Jack  not  yet  spoken 
to.  The  mind  has  study  pains  just  as  the  body  has 
growing  pains;  the  latter  are  painful  to  the  son, 
the  former  to  the  parents.  I'm  glad  you've  come, 
Mr.  Rolland,  for  I  need  to  be  soothed.  You'll 
play  to  me,  won't  you?  Rosalind  has  said  so  much 
about  you  that  ever  since  yesterday  I  have  been  on 
the  qui  vive." 

Rosalind's  face  burned  self-consciously  as  Eric 
turned  towards  her:  she  felt  it  impossible  to  face 
his  gaze. 

"  She  has  been  most  kind  to  mention  me.  I 
hoped  she  would." 

With  a  bright  glance  he  followed  Rosalind  into 
the  music  room. 

"  Will  you  stay  with  me  ?  " 

She  smiled  in  reply,  and  sat  where  she  might 
stare  at  him  unobserved,  the  momentary  wave  of 
strange  unrest  ebbing  from  her.  He  ran  over  a 
few  of  Schumann-Heink's  songs  with  a  deft,  sure 


AFTER  THE  CONCERT  139 

touch,  then  essayed  something  more  pretentious. 
In  the  midst  of  a  dashing  French  waltz  voices  from 
the  drawing-room  halted  his  fingers. 

"  Oh,  don't  stop !  "  cried  out  Mrs.  Copley.  "  It's 
so  improving  for  Ben  and  my  husband !  Please  go 
on." 

"  You  must  meet  my  father.  You  haven't  yet, 
have  you?  " 

Rosalind  saw  an  excellent  opportunity  to  bring 
Benjamin  and  Eric  Rolland  together,  and  though 
she  shrank  from  the  meeting,  realised  its  necessity. 
During  the  last  two  days  her  position  had  been  too 
false  and  too  perilous  for  maintenance.  It  was  far 
better  that  she  introduce  Eric  to  Benjamin  than 
malicious  tongues  perform  that  office. 

In  a  moment  the  meeting  was  over.  As  Ben- 
jamin measured  the  stranger's  slender  figure  and 
eager,  mobile  face,  she  could  see  that  her  choice 
of  the  concert  instead  of  the  visit  to  the  Longwood 
Hospital  rankled  in  his  mind.  It  was  plain  that 
he  was  hurt  and  plain  that  he  wished  her  to  know. 
For  a  moment  the  situation  was  strained;  then  Mrs. 
Copley  came  to  the  rescue.  Better  than  any 
woman  in  Boston  she  knew  how  to  combat  such  a 
moment. 

"  I'm  done  with  Russian  literature,  Jack,"  she 
said,  picking  up  a  book  from  the  table  beside  her 
with  a  wry  face.  "  If  you  want  to  please  me,  never 
give  me  a  Russian  novel  again." 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Copley?  "  asked  Eric  with  a  quizzi- 
cal look. 

"Oh,  they  are  so  unpleasant!"  Mrs.  Copley 
shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders.  "  My  idea  of  Rus- 
sian literature  is  a  composite  picture  of  any  number 
of  consumptive  death-beds.  And  they  always  die 


1 40  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

under  the  most  revolting  circumstances.  As  for  the 
characters,  no  one  would  ever  want  to  know  them; 
they  are  all  unclean,  unmoral,  and  unscrupulous." 

"  There  are  lots  of  people  in  the  world  like 
them." 

"But  why  write  about  such  people?  What  is 
the  use?  It's  too  depressing."  Mrs.  Copley 
shook  her  head  till  the  lamplight  danced  in  the  pearls 
about  her  neck.  "  If  they'd  only  wash  up  their 
heroes  and  let  them  die  pleasantly!  I'm  sure  it 
does  nobody  good  to  read  such  books." 

"  Hasn't  it  done  you  good  already  without  your 
knowing  it?  " 

"  I  can't  see  how."  Mrs.  Copley  looked  in  a 
delightfully  puzzled  way  at  the  young  Frenchman. 

"  Why,  it's  made  you  angry  against  such  condi- 
tions in  books,  and  that's  the  next  thing  to  being 
roused  against  such  conditions  in  real  life." 

Mrs.  Copley's  eyebrows  were  still  arched.  A 
person  who  regards  literature  as  confectionery  to 
be  sampled  and  consumed  like  candied  comfits  in 
leisure  hours,  readily  fails  to  grasp  any  personal 
relation  with  a  dirty  peasant  in  a  Russian  novel. 

"  He's  right,  Mother.  I'm  sure  that  such  books 
do  a  world  of  good.  If  our  friends  would  only 
read  them,  perhaps  Chambers  Street  wouldn't  look 
as  it  does  on  a  hot  day  in  summer,  crammed  with 
dirty  and  pitiful  babies.  They're  as  thick  as  flies, 
aren't  they,  Ben?" 

"  Indeed,  yes." 

"And  you  know  about  them,  Miss  Copley?" 
Eric  asked  with  surprised  interest. 

"  Know  about  them?"  broke  in  her  father  from 
over  the  Transcript.  "  Rosalind  is  one  of  our  best 
little  social  reformers  I  " 


AFTER  THE  CONCERT  141 

"Jack,  stop!  You  know  you're  prouder  than 
any  one  of  what  she  has  done  at  Brimmer  House." 

"  Don't  you  think  I  look  interested  in  such 
things?"  asked  Rosalind. 

"  Perhaps  you  do."  Eric  looked  boldly  at  her. 
"  At  first  I  didn't  think  you  did;  you  are  so — " 

"Don't!"  interrupted  Rosalind  gaily.  "Don't 
throw  my  femininity  in  my  face !  I  believe  every 
man  in  this  world  thinks  that  a  girl  must  have  the 
appearance  of  a  prize-fighter  to  delve  into  anything 
more  than  bonbons  and  styles.  You  one  and  all 
condemn  us  to  be  butterflies." 

Is  not  woman  perverse,  uncertain,  hard  to 
please?  When  Benjamin  cast  blundering  asper- 
sions upon  the  feminine  world,  Rosalind  thought 
it  necessary  to  her  honour  to  punish  him;  but 
the  same  condemnation  from  Eric's  lips  brought 
forth  no  more  than  a  gay  provocation  to 
further  condemning.  Circumstances  do  indeed  alter 
cases. 

"  I  suppose  it's  because  the  average  man  prefers 
the  eater  of  bonbons  to  the  social  worker,"  laughed 
Eric,  "  and  hopes  to  find,  almost  without  knowing 
it,  the  old  Victorian  type  in  every  girl  he  meets. 
No  one  can  see  a  butterfly  without  wanting  to  catch 
it  —  but  it  is  not  so  pretty  at  home  under  glass. 
I'm  glad  you  are  interested  in  the  poor." 

"  They  all  adore  her,  Mr.  Rolland.  I've  even 
had  some  of  her  girls  here  to  tea !  " 

Mrs.  Copley  smiled  a  benignant,  disarming  smile. 
Behold  her  concession  to  poverty;  was  she  not 
abreast  of  the  new  movement? 

"  Her  girls?" 

"  From  Brimmer  House,  Mamma  means.  That's 
the  charity  at  which  I've  helped  for  four  years." 


1 42  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  I  should  like  to  see  it.  Will  you  take  me  some 
time?" 

u  With  pleasure.  I'll  even  make  you  play  for 
them.  I  impress  all  my  men  friends  into  the  serv- 
ice; Benjamin  has  been  my  trusty  financial  aide  for 
months." 

A  sop  for  Cerberus.  But  Cerberus  was  in  no 
mood  for  such  trifles  and  glowered  at  the  words. 
Benjamin  arose  stiffly  from  his  chair;  Brimmer 
House  had  been  one  of  the  closest  ties  between  him- 
self and  Rosalind,  something  peculiarly  intimate; 
who  was  this  stranger  invading  the  hallowed  ground 
of  their  friendship?  He  went  home,  jealous,  re- 
sentful, unhappy.  No  matter  how  small  the  prov- 
ocation, a  man  in  love  can  find  tears  in  the  eyes  of 
angels  and  spots  as  big  as  his  head  upon  the  sun. 
Everything  to  the  lover  is  wrong  until  proved  right; 
everything  goes  under  penalty  of  suspicion  until  ab- 
solved by  a  kiss. 

But  with  Rosalind  how  different!  As  she  sat 
down  after  dinner  to  write  a  long  overdue  letter  to 
Camilla  Cabot,  the  sole  repository  of  her  thoughts, 
she  was  resplendently  joyous.  Enchanted  by  Eric, 
she  was  also  happy  that  her  cowardice  was  con- 
quered, that  she  and  Benjamin  had  come  to  an  agree- 
ment by  means  of  which,  with  a  little  skill  on  her 
part,  a  not  too  unpleasant  adjustment  of  their  re- 
lations might  be  effected.  Thanks  to  her  high  spir- 
its, the  letter  was  written  in  the  most  flippant  and 
sprightly  of  tones. 

Friday,  April   I2th. 
Dearest  Cammy: 

I  really  don't  deserve  the  bushel  of  ungenteel  adjectives 
your  last  letter  dumped  on  me.  Wait  until  you  hear  what 
has  happened,  my  darling  Cam,  before  you  bite  because  I 


AFTER  [THE  CONCERT  143 

didn't  write.  Skipping  lightly  from  poetry  to  the  Bible,  I 
have  walked  through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  —  and  even 
still  my  path  is  umbrageous.  Which  is  all  by  way  of  say- 
ing that  your  old  Samson  has  gone  and  done  it! 

It  happened  at  Aiken,  my  lovely  Cammy,  when  the  sun 
was  peeping  through  the  singing  pines.  And  it  came  that 
sudden:  PLOSH!  Just  like  that!  A  first  class  chance 
to  be  the  Governor's  wife!  You  said  when  you  departed 
for  Panama  with  my  best  Thomasine  jabot  —  as  I  later 
discovered !  —  that  Ben  would  some  day  be  the  First  Gent, 
in  Mass.,  you  know.  But  I  disregarded  gubernatorial  at- 
traction, and  can  still  sign  "  Ever  thine  "  to  thee. 

Poor  Ben  has  taken  it  terribly  hard.  (I  know,  but 
there's  no  one  else  to  say  it!)  Our  friendship  is  all  gone 
packing,  and  the  situation  now  is  AWFUL!  Cammy  love, 
he  won't  take  "  no  " !  And  I,  being  as  you  know  a  sweet, 
affectionate,  loving  creature,  cannot  be  brutal  with  him.  So 
we've  set  a  Doomsday  —  June  1st.  You  must  return,  dear, 
and  help  dust  up  the  room  after  the  battle  is  over. 

Life  is  not  all  thistles  and  cabbages,  though.  Loveliest 
Cam,  eine  bluhende  Rose  ist  in  meinen  Garten  gekommen! 
It's  my  perverse  nature  to  write  in  German,  for  he's  a 
French  rose,  come  a-visiting  Uncle  Sing-Sing.  Conceive 
me  abattue,  aplatie,  emue  —  and  everything  like  that  —  on 
entering  the  Square  and  finding  an  adorable  young  demi-god 
at  the  piano!  At  least  he  looked  like  that  in  the  morning 
sunlight.  He  plays  comme  un  inspire.  Look  up  hero  in 
the  dictionary.  Tall,  slender,  graceful,  dark,  curly-haired, 
green-eyed  —  oh,  so  green,  Cammy,  dear !  —  well  dressed  — 
hold  that  pose,  please!  Doesn't  that  sound  like  a  six-best- 
seller? I  call  him  very  handsome;  his  face  is  bizarre,  I 
suppose,  but  so  interesting  and  mobile.  (Pit-pat!  pit-pat! 
My  heart  beating,  Cammy.) 

Are  you  jealous?  Ben  is!  But  wait  till  you  see  him! 
No-o-o!  You  might  turn  abductress.  At  present  we  are 
artistically  flighty;  perhaps  from  the  style  of  this  epistle  you 
will  gather  that  I  am  a  trifle  aerial,  but  you  have  told  me 
you  liked  it. 


144  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

Anges  en  del 
Mangent  de  miel. 
Miel,  ta  louange; 
Je  suis  ton  ange! 

ROSE. 

P.S.  His  name  is  Eric  Rolland ;  the  son  of  the  tenor,  Lu- 
cien.  Glamour,  you  say? 

P. P.S.  Cam!  They've  got  a  new  Club  in  town.  I'm 
going  to-morrow.  They  have  a  Bible  talk  in  the  morning 
from  Dr.  Snuffle ;  in  the  afternoon  they  play  bridge.  That's 
preparedness  against  the  Evil  One,  ain't  it? 

Lastly,   lovely  Cammy,  he's  an  architect.     Do  you  sup- 
pose he  designs  love  in  a  cottage? 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHAT    PATRICIA   THOUGHT 

THE  sprightly  mood  in  which  Rosalind  had 
composed  her  letter  to  the  admiring  and  ex- 
cellent Camilla  continued  on  the  day  follow- 
ing. She  arose  with  a  song  in  her  heart  and  de- 
scended to  breakfast  with  it  on  her  lips,  returning 
Jack's  shyly  affectionate  embrace  with  a  kiss  of  splen- 
did dimensions.  To  fill  her  cup  brimful,  the  family 
readily  acceded  to  her  postponement  of  the  annual 
spring  removal  to  the  Sherborne  farm,  thus  leaving 
her  an  additional  week  in  town  to  spend  in  cultivating 
her  newest  and  most  alluring  interest. 

With  far  more  gaiety  than  was  her  wont,  she 
set  off  with  her  mother  for  the  Bridge  and  Bible 
Club,  which  on  this  day  met  at  the  magnificent  resi- 
dence of  Mrs.  Preble.  One  could  not  call  it  a  house. 
A  house  suggests  home  and  the  fireside,  something 
to  leave  and  return  to,  something  to  cherish  almost 
as  a  friend;  but  this  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
a  magnificent  residence.  Mrs.  Preble  accorded 
with  the  popular  conception  of  a  social  leader.  An 
imported  product,  she  had  gone  in  for  everything 
which  she  felt  sure  might  galvanise  Boston:  mon- 
keys, suffrage,  professional  dancers,  Arabian  foot* 
men  —  why  not  a  Bridge  and  Bible  Club?  The 
idea  had  come  to  her  from  New  York;  they  were 
doing  it  there.  Before  this  dazzling  novelty,  even 

145 


i46  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

though  the  Biblical  morning  scarcely  appealed  to 
her,  Mrs.  Preble  lost  interest  in  her  effort  to  pro- 
vide the  babies  of  the  North  End  with  pure  milk. 
Here  was  a  pursuit  far  worthier  of  her  attention; 
and  she  gave  it  with  the  fatuous  eagerness  of  all 
those  ultra-fashionables  who,  lacking  the  brains  to 
entertain  themselves,  must  spend  their  time  in  en- 
tertaining others.  Lo,  the  Bridge  and  Bible  Club 
waxed  as  is  the  way  of  fat  weeds!  On  this  morn- 
ing all  the  smart  ladies  of  the  town  were  assembled 
in  Mrs.  Treble's  ballroom,  gorgeously  dressed  and 
bearing  a  treasury  of  jewels.  Rosalind  swept  her 
eyes  over  the  "  flock  " —  as  Dr.  Snuffle,  from  a  coign 
of  vantage  under  a  Nattier  depicting  a  bathing 
nymph,  unctuously  called  them  —  and  wondered 
with  a  smile  why  they  had  all  come.  Her  mother, 
she  knew,  spoke  of  Mrs.  Preble  with  a  pretty  shrug. 
Had  they  come,  like  herself,  out  of  curiosity?  Sur- 
prises in  Boston  society  usually  emanated  from  one 
source,  Mrs.  Preble;  and  the  beau  monde,  though 
it  often  wondered  if  she  were  not  going  a  little  too 
far,  invariably  went  with  her. 

Dr.  Snuffle  exuded  a  diluted  account  of  Ruth  and 
Boaz.  It  was  a  pretty  subject,  pretty  in  other  days 
and  pretty  now  by  contrast;  he  told  them  so,  but 
apart  from  that  ventured  nothing  constructive,  ex- 
cept a  hope  that  each  one  would  carry  away  the 
lesson  of  faith  and  love.  When  he  had  finished, 
Rosalind  could  see  women  right  and  left  carrying 
away  the  lesson.  Some  of  them  carried  it  into  the 
library  for  a  smoke;  others  carried  it  to  the  butler 
and  one  of  the  Arabian  footmen,  who  were  serving 
-cocktails  in  the  music-room;  but  most  of  the  women 
carried  their  faith  and  love  into  the  dining-room 
and  thus  strengthened  fell  upon  the  luncheon. 


WHAT  PATRICIA  THOUGHT       147 

Rosalind  could  plainly  see  that  the  talk  had  bene- 
fited them  all.  They  spoke  in  hushed  voices  of  the 
subject  and  the  preacher.  One  woman,  though  she 
remembered  having  heard  the  story  before,  ex- 
pressed over  a  plate  of  chicken  salad  her  agreeable 
willingness  to  hear  it  again  just  for  the  sake  of  the 
moral;  another  found  Boas  cold;  a  third  thought 
Ruth  forward;  but  all  agreed  that  Dr.  Snuffle  had 
told  the  story  in  a  charming  way  —  and  wondered 
how  soon  the  bridge  would  begin  after  luncheon. 
To  Rosalind  the  whole  affair  was  delightfully  en- 
grossing. It  was  such  a  stupendous  sham !  She  was 
sensible  enough  to  realise  the  ludicrous  side  of  the 
gathering  at  the  same  time  that  she  deprecated  its 
essential  wrong.  To  Mrs.  Copley  it  was  only  an- 
other breach  made  by  Mrs.  Preble  in  convention; 
her  daughter  saw  also  the  breach  in  society's  strength 
before  the  world.  A  Bridge  and  Bible  Club,  in- 
deed! Plague  take  the  twentieth  century  for  its 
terrible  gift  to  our  poor  mortal  world,  its  nai've  and 
impudently  ingenuous  manner  of  doing  wrong. 

"  Hello,  Rosey!     Have  a  cocktail?  " 

Rosalind  turned  with  a  pleasant  shake  of  her 
head.  She  had  seen  too  much  of  the  bitterer  life 
at  Brimmer  House  to  be  shocked  by  such  a  jarring 
note,  and  could  be  Roman  enough  in  Rome,  how- 
ever she  inwardly  disapproved  of  that  city's  man- 
ners. 

"  Why,  Patsy  Canfield !  Wherever  have  you 
come  from?  " 

Patricia  Canfield,  whose  hands  Rosalind  would 
have  seized,  but  that  she  bore  a  glass  in  each,  was 
a  dark-eyed  brunette,  considered  by  most  mothers 
dangerously  beautiful  and  by  most  sons  beautifully 
dangerous.  Though  her  family  was  as  old  as  any 


148  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

in  Massachusetts,  Patricia  and  her  parents  were  not 
highly  regarded  in  the  community.  Some  said  that 
the  family  was  too  old.  Patricia's  father  had  com- 
mitted suicide;  her  mother's  residence  abroad  was 
explained  in  polite  conversation  by  that  phrase  of 
phrases,  "  for  her  health."  For  years  Patricia  and 
Rosalind  had  gone  to  school  together,  but,  though 
they  had  seen  much  of  each  other  all  their  lives, 
Rosalind  had  never  fully  made  up  her  mind  whether 
she  liked  her  friend  or  not.  Miss  Canfield  had 
the  attractions  common  to  youth  and  cleverness,  be- 
ing beautiful  and,  superficially  at  least,  the  last  word 
in  reckless  modernity.  Like  the  last  word  in  any- 
thing, she  engrossed  the  attention  of  friends  and 
enemies  alike.  Cubism  is  to-day  the  thing  in  art; 
and  you  will  find  the  most  high-waisted  devotee  of 
pre-Raphaelitism  that  ever  worshipped  Burne-Jones 
lingering  for  hours  in  front  of  the  "  Nude  Com- 
ing Down  Stairs."  The  world  is  ever  progressive. 
If  it  were  not,  people  would  take  as  little  interest 
in  the  last  word  as  they  do  in  any  fixed  thing.  It 
is  because  the  last  word  of  to-day  is  the  revered 
idol  of  to-morrow  that  people  regard  it  with  a  fear- 
ful interest,  fascinated  by  its  prophetic  character. 
For  Rosalind  there  was  too  much  of  Helen  in  Pa- 
tricia to  trust,  and  too  much  of  Cassandra  to  un- 
derstand. 

"  I've  come  from  Paris  within  a  week.  Been 
over  with  Mat.  There!  "  (as  she  drank  one  cock- 
tail). "Religion  makes  me  thirsty!  Do  I  look 
dreadfully  wicked,  Rosey?  " 

*  You  haven't  changed  much  anyway,  Pat !  " 

"  Change  ?  Age  cannot  wither,  nor  custom  stale 
my  infinite  —  my  infinite  infinity !  Sure  you  don't 
want  this,  dear  ?  "  She  pointed  to  the  second  cock- 


Patricia 


WHAT  PATRICIA  THOUGHT       149 

tail.  "  No,  of  course  not  1  What  shall  I  do  with 
it?  "  she  asked  in  a  general  way. 

"  Do  with  it,  Patty?  "  called  Mrs.  Preble,  as  she 
swept  imperially  by  on  a  tour  of  inspection.  "  Drink 
it,  child!/' 

Patricia  Canfield  smilingly  complied. 

"  One  can't  be  rude,  Rosey!  To  such  a  hostess, 
too !  "  she  whispered,  catching  Rosalind  by  the  arm. 
"  Let's  go  in  to  lunch  together,  dear.  It's  months 
since  I've  seen  you,  and  we  must  talk,  talk,  talk! 
Ain't  I  wicked,  Rosey?" 

She  let  slip  a  provocative  smile,  such  as  she  had 
often  employed  in  the  past  to  reduce  Harvard  un- 
dergraduates who  fancied  themselves  in  love  to  a 
state  of  utter  imbecility. 

"  Patsy,  who  were  you  before  you  were  Cleo- 
patra?" 

"  Priscilla  Alden  mustn't  flatter  I  What  luck  I 
Here's  a  table  for  two." 

They  sat  down  amidst  the  bustle  and  chattering  of 
the  crowded  room. 

"  Now,  Pat,  tell  me  all  about  it.  What  have  you 
been  up  to?  " 

"  First,  Rosey,  is  the  Ogress  here?  " 

"  You  mean  my  Cammy,  I  suppose.  She'd  give  it 
to  you  for  the  way  you've  behaved  to-day,  Pat! 
But  I'm  too  good-tempered.  No,  the  Ogress  is  off 
doing  Panama  with  her  papa." 

Patricia  Canfield  made  up  a  face. 

"  With  all  respect  for  our  angelic  school  friend, 
I'm  glad.  You'll  never  guess  what  I've  been  doing 
this  winter!  I've  been  keeping  pigs  in  Paul  Oh, 
I'm  the  bucolic,  I  am !  Barbara  Frietchie  and  Maud 
Muller  all  in  one.  How  does  it  go  — *  Up  from 
the  meadows  fresh  with  corn '  ?  Mat  and  I  had 


1 50  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

the  darlingest  farm  at  Pau !  Look  at  my  figger, 
Rosey:  haying!  My  complexion:  gardening!  And 
the  pigs:  my  dear  girl,  I  could  bring  up  ten  babies 
now!  They're  nothing  like  a  litter  of  piglets,  I'll 
warrant." 

"  I  suppose  you've  thrown  over  a  dozen  dukes !  " 

"  There's  no  telling,  Rosey.  How's  your  god- 
pa?" 

"  He's  the  same.     We  went  to  Aiken  again." 

"  So  ?  And  the  Square  is  lively  as  ever,  I  sup- 
pose? " 

"  Lively,  Patty !  We've  got  a  '  young  Frencher  ' 
there,  as  Alfie  calls  him." 

'Not  with  Sing-Song?" 

"  Patty !  "  Rosalind  shook  her  head  in  comic  re- 
proof. "  Eric  Rolland's  his  name.  Did  you  ever 
meet  him  —  the  tenor's  son?  " 

"Eric!     Not  Eric?" 

"  You  have  met  him,  Pat?  " 

"  Met  him  ?  I  came  over  on  the  boat  with  him  1 
Met  him  ?  Oh,  Rosey  1  One  of  those  slow  French 
liners  and  a  moon  for  nine  nights." 

Rosalind  sat  up  very  straight  in  her  chair  and 
grew  red.  She  was  glad  Patricia  was  looking  out 
of  the  window. 

"  Don't  he  play  well,  dear?  "  she  went  on  reminis- 
cently.  "  I  tell  you  he  gave  me  quite  a  flutter.  You 
must  take  me  to  see  him.  I'm  a  desperate  case  of 
Eric  or  erotic  or  something." 

Miss  Canfield  laughed  and  to  Rosalind's  relief 
turned  the  subject  of  conversation,  dashing  off  in 
a  brilliant  extravagance  upon  a  poor  farmer's  son 
who  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  in  a  hayfield  at 
Pau. 

The  trouble  was  that  a  little  village  girl  adored 


u 


WHAT  PATRICIA  THOUGHT       151 

him.  They  were  engaged  or  something,  and  I  guess 
his  parents  regarded  me  as  a  second  Carmen.  They 
even  came  one  Sunday  to  plead  with  Mat. '  Will 
you  believe  it,  Rosey,  they  asked  Mat  to  interfere 
for  her  poor  dead  husband's  sake?  Imaginez! 
Mat  flew  into  such  a  passion  that  even  I  was 
alarmed  at  the  size  of  her  vocabulary  and  the  quan- 
tity of  her  breath.  Andrea  Sebastien  was  his  name 
and  he  was  handsome  enough  for  the  whole  of  it. 
There's  a  lot  in  a  name,  dear;  you  look  rosy,  you 
know,  and  every  time  I  see  Camilla  I  think  of  Fanny 
Burney  and  all  those  other  stupids.  I  do  wish  Mrs. 
Preble  would  hurry.  Apologies  aside,  Rosey,  I'm 
dying  for  cards  and  cash.  I'm  going  to  play  against 
Mrs.  Gloucester,  and  if  I  don't  get  some  lingerie 
out  of  the  old  dear,  why,  I  shall  have  to  go  without 
and  add  Lady  Godiva  to  my  other  accomplish- 
ments !  " 

After  the  ladies  had  sat  down  to  bridge  and  Rosa- 
lind had  excused  herself  from  what  Mrs.  Preble 
predicted  would  be  the  fun,  she  walked  down  the 
Avenue  to  her  godfather's  house,  turning  over  in 
her  mind  what  her  old  friend  had  said.  The  mat- 
ter of  Patricia's  having  crossed  on  the  same  liner 
with  Eric  Rolland  was  an  occurrence  of  concern  to 
her.  While,  as  she  told  herself,  she  was  no  more 
than  much  interested  in  the  young  Frenchman,  she 
knew  Patricia  well  enough  to  regard  their  acquaint- 
anceship as  a  troublesome  element  in  certain  little 
plans  which  she  had  been  shaping.  To  some  ways 
of  thinking  nine  days  is  a  short  space,  scarcely  more 
than  a  week;  but  in  that  time  Patricia  was  capable 
of  both  subjugating  and  devastating  a  male  heart. 
Rosalind  herself  had  known  Eric  but  for  three 
days. 


152  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

She  earnestly  wished  that  he  had  not  met  Patricia. 
Yet  at  the  same  time  that  she  felt  a  little  shocked, 
she  could  not  but  remember  that  Patricia  was  one 
of  her  own  oldest  friends.  Whether  she  approved 
of  her  behaviour  was  apart  from  the  question.  She 
had  successively  adored,  fought,  and  tolerated  Pa- 
tricia; why  should  not  others?  No,  she  certainly 
could  not  blame  Eric  in  her  mind  for  knowing  her, 
even  for  liking  her.  Did  he  like  her?  Thanks  to 
her  absorption  in  this  insoluble  question  she  unob- 
servantly  walked  directly  into  an  oncoming  perambu- 
lator, the  propelling  power  of  which  was  gazing 
across  the  road  with  unfeigned  admiration  at  a  friend 
in  the  police.  Probably  there  had  been  on  the 
French  liner  no  other  attractive  people;  probably 
Eric  had  played  for  Patricia  often  and  she  had 
heaped  adulation  on  him;  probably  they  had  sat 
out  on  the  top  deck  in  the  moonlight,  discussing  those 
unfathomable  subjects  which  seem  inseparably  con- 
nected with  sea  voyages.  If  this  were  true  —  and 
it  did  not  take  long  for  Rosalind,  building  on  Pa- 
tricia's flighty  remarks,  to  believe  that  it  was  —  why 
then,  the  sooner  she  abandoned  a  course  of  intimacy 
with  Eric  for  one  of  civility  the  better.  But  in  mat- 
ters of  love  decisions  based  on  reason  are  soon 
broken.  She  entered  8  Louisburg  Square  to  meet 
Eric,  with  his  fine  hand  extended  to  take  hers,  say- 
ing, u  I  have  been  waiting  for  you ;  I  thought  you 
had  forgotten." 

Resolutionary  firmness  vanished;  the  thickest  fog 
melts  under  the  beneficent  radiance  of  the  sun. 

"Not  I.  Even  the  Bridge  and  Bible  Club 
couldn't  efface  that  appointment.  Where's  Uncle 
Sing-Sing?  I  must  tell  him  all  about  it." 

Together  they  went  up  to   the   invalid's  study, 


WHAT  PATRICIA  THOUGHT       153 

where  he  lay  on  his  ottoman,  watching  aerial  fingers 
at  work  upon  his  beloved  Square  in  the  interests  of 
a  new  and  softer  season.  He  turned  his  head  to 
see  them  enter,  and  there  was  longing  in  his  eyes. 
He  cared,  as  we  have  seen,  for  almost  no  one.  In- 
deed, one  might  have  said  that  all  the  love  the  human 
heart  is  capable  of  yearned  in  his  breast  for  these  two 
fair  young  creatures,  standing  side  by  side  in  the 
premature  gloom  of  his  front  room. 

"  Godfather,"  ventured  Rosalind,  after  an  ac- 
count of  the  party  from  which  Patricia  was  tactfully 
omitted,  "  we  ought  to  launch  Mr.  Rolland  — " 

"  Eric,"  interrupted  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton 
slowly. 

"What?" 

"  Eric,"  he  repeated. 

"  Oh,  please  do,  Miss  Copley.  Please  call 
me  — " 

"  Rosalind !  "  the  invalid  interrupted  again. 

It  was  Rosalind's  turn  to  cry  out  this  time.  She 
and  Eric  looked  at  each  other  and  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Listen,  Uncle  Sing-Sing!  We  must  launch  Eric 
in  Boston  society!  " 

'  You  speak  of  me  as  if  I  were  a  man-o'-war !  " 

"  I'm  sure  you  are  much  more  interesting  than 
one;  see  if  Boston  doesn't  think  so.  Now,  Uncle 
Sing-Sing,  I  should  imagine  a  very  little  dinner  in 
the  Square  would  be  the  best  thing." 

"  Must  we?  "  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  appealed 
rather  sadly  to  Rosalind.  What  was  he  thinking 
of  behind  those  wan  eyes?  Society  had  taken  young 
Rosalind  from  him  on  the  eve  of  her  debut;  perhaps 
he  had  hoped  to  keep  this  new  source  of  joy  all  to 
himself. 


154  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  We  mustn't  be  selfish,  dear.  I  have  thought  of 
April  the  twentieth." 

"So  soon?" 

"  We  mustn't  lock  poor  Eric  up  as  if  he  were  a 
criminal  or  a  monk.  Of  course,  he  wants  to  see  and 
meet  a  few  people;  even  you  and  I  prove  a  bore 
after  a  while." 

"  Not  at  all.     I  — " 

"  April  twentieth  is  fixed  for  your  public  appear- 
ance," she  interrupted  with  a  laugh.  "  You  mustn't 
look  a  gift  debut  in  the  mouth.  You're  agreeable, 
Uncle  Sing-Sing?" 

The  invalid  nodded. 

"Who  will  be  invited?"  asked  Eric,  affecting 
great  timidity.  "  May  I  know?  " 

"  Leave  the  guests  to  me,"  replied  Rosalind,  "  and 
I'll  surprise  you  both." 

The  list  had  been  in  her  mind  all  day.  To  write 
the  invitations  was  a  small  matter  —  Benjamin  and 
Dr.  Gary,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Veneerable,  Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery Longfellow,  Justice  Pauncher,  Mr.  Swel- 
front,  the  world-famous  architect,  for  Eric's  par- 
ticular benefit,  and  several  people  to  fill  in.  When 
the  invitations  were  all  written,  Rosalind  medi- 
tatively bit  the  end  of  the  penholder.  How  about 
Patricia  Canfield  ?  She  had  deliberately  passed  over 
her  name,  but  on  consideration  wondered  if  a  greater 
wisdom  did  not  lie  in  inviting  her  troublesome  friend. 
The  only  way  to  ascertain  the  true  relations  of  two 
people  is  to  bring  them  together;  here  lay  an  excel- 
lent opportunity  for  observation.  Valuing  the 
sharpness  of  Patricia's  tongue  and  knowing  that  her 
omission  would  inevitably  lead  to  embarrassing  in- 
uendoes,  she  tore  up  the  note  to  Pauline  Peabody, 


WHAT  PATRICIA  THOUGHT       1551 

and  wrote  as  follows,  suiting  her  style  to  Patricia's 
well  known  humour. 

Dear  Cleopatra: 

Dinner  at  the  Square  —  April  twentieth.  A  foreign  gen- 
tleman to  be  entertained;  has  no  title,  but  good  looks  and 
genius.  Eight  o'clock. 

Your  Rose  and  Sing-Sing  need  you ! 

P.  S.     Pigs  not  allowed  on  the  premises. —  R. 

The  week  which  intervened  before  the  dinner  was 
a  memorable  one.  According  to  their  original 
agreement  Rosalind  turned  Baedeker  for  Eric's 
benefit,  and  found  her  personally  conducted  tours  an 
infinite  pleasure.  Together  they  journeyed  every- 
where, to  every  historic  landmark,  to  every  nook  of 
interest  or  curiosity,  and  especially  to  any  towns 
where  Eric  could  observe  examples  of  Colonial  archi- 
tecture. Salem  and  Newburyport  were  ransacked 
until  his  notebooks  were  filled  with  rough  sketches  of 
relics  of  simpler  days.  Americans  no  longer  build 
homes;  they  build  factories,  sky-scrapers,  houses,  to 
be  sure,  but  the  art  of  building  homes  vanished  with 
the  art  of  living  in  them. 

Particularly  memorable  was  one  glorious  day  spent 
in  the  country.  They  had  automobiled  out  to  a 
famous  mansion  near  Lancaster  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, a  fascinating  old  house,  typical  of  the  finest 
Colonial  spirit.  Before  it  Eric  soon  fell  a-sketching 
with  eager  zeal,  while  Rosalind,  stretched  at  full 
length  on  the  grass  under  the  shade  of  her  gay  cre- 
tonne parasol,  pretended  an  absorption  in  Verhaer- 
en's  poems.  The  grass  was  soft  and  warm  from 
the  morning  sun  and  as  it  stirred  against  her  breast, 
she  enjoyed  a  delicious  sense  of  relaxation.  Above 


156  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

the  house  swept  the  graceful  branches  of  elms,  mov- 
ing an  intricate  tracery  of  shadow  as  the  breeze, 
which  still  bore  in  its  dash  a  trace  of  the  season  gone 
before,  gently  moved  them  to  and  fro.  From  the 
corner  of  her  eye  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Eric,  so 
close  that  it  was  possible  to  touch  him  with  the  silver 
tip  of  her  parasol.  The  book  dropped  from  her 
hands;  in  this  radiance  she  smelt  the  kerosene  of  its 
nocturnal  composition.  How  little  poetry  has  been 
written  which  can  be  read  with  respect  and  pleasure 
out  of  doors  in  April !  Rosalind  turned  lazily  upon 
her  side,  lowering  the  parasol  that  the  sun  might  fall 
upon  her  face.  There  was  a  great  stillness  every- 
where ;  the  countryside  slept  like  a  child.  Far  away 
a  silent  hill  swelled  in  a  brilliant  outline  against  the 
sky.  It  was  as  if  the  concentrated  essence  of  the 
most  inspired  of  seasons  had  been  poured  forth  with 
a  lavish  hand,  as  if  before  its  adolescent  beauty  na- 
ture and  all  things  productive  of  sound  were  hushed 
in  a  perfect  concord  of  silence.  Being  one  to  whom 
out  of  doors  is  dear,  Rosalind  felt  the  inexpressible 
beauty  of  this  morning  rise  resistless  in  her  heart. 
She  sat  up  and  stretched  her  arms  out  in  the  stream- 
ing sunlight. 

"  Oh,  Eric,  I  can't  read  this  poetry !  It's  all 
around  me  now  so  much  fairer  than  mortal  hands 
can  write  it.  Those  old  elms  as  they  droop  over 
the  house  are  like  tired  guardians.  Don't  you  love 
them?  Just  see  the  green  of  those  meadows,  the 
aquamarine  of  that  little  lake,  and  far  off  the  deep 
blue  of  those  hills!  Doesn't  it  make  you  want  to 
sing?  I  feel  like  crying  out  that  this  is  the  best  and 
most  beautiful  world  ever  created !  " 

Eric  looked  up  from  his  sketchbook. 

"  No,  not  cry  out."     He  cast  his  eyes  reflectively 


WHAT  PATRICIA  THOUGHT       157 

over  the  country  side.  "  Rather  fall  on  my  knees 
and  thank  God  for  it  all !  What  might  not  a  Corot 
or  a  Constable  feel  now.  And  here  I  am  paltering 
away  with  these  dry  architect's  sketches.  Let's  climb 
the  hill,  Rose." 

"  Yes,  yes !  We  can  see  even  more  from 
there!" 

Together  they  climbed  the  hill,  struggling  side 
by  side  over  fences  and  bending  under  hedges, 
breathing  fast  in  the  eagerness  of  the  ascent.  At 
length  they  stood  upon  the  summit.  The  panorama 
spread  out  at  their  feet  in  a  wealth  of  dimpling 
meadows  and  swelling  hills  made  them  exclaim  in 
unison. 

"How  grand  it  is!"  Rosalind  murmured. 
"  And  yet,"  she  continued  after  a  pause,  "  it  is 
simple.  Other  hills  are  twenty  times  as  magnificent 
as  these  and  other  fields  twenty  times  as  rich.  Yet 
spring  can  make  this  seem  unparalleled." 

"America  is  so  big!"  said  Eric.  "Look  how 
it  stretches  away  on  all  sides!  In  France  the  hor- 
izon seems  the  end  of  the  world;  here  the  horizon 
promises  only  more  grandeur.  Sometimes  America 
is  ragged  and  ugly,  but  it  is  always  great." 

"  This  is  the  America  we  love.  I  wish  it  could 
all  be  spread  out  over  the  vile  city !  " 

"  That  would  only  cover  up  its  wickedness." 

"  In  time  the  roots  would  grow  downward.  Oh, 
Eric,  I  adore  this.  I  should  have  been  born  a  milk- 
maid. I  am  at  home  with  nature  as  you  are;  I  feel 
it  is  a  neighbour,  a  friend." 

"  '  Les  ombres,  les  eaux,  et  I' art  champetre  avaient 
compose  une  harmonie  si  simple  qu'elle  paraissait 
conduite  selon  le  rythme  de  la  flute  a  trots  notes, 
taillee  dans  le  roseau  palustre,'  "  Eric  quoted. 


158  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  What  is  that?" 

"  D'Annunzio,  I  think.  It  has  always  stayed  in 
my  memory." 

"  How  quiet  it  is !  We  might  be  in  Mars  or 
Venus  and  be  no  more  alone.  There  is  no  one  to 
hear  us,  no  one  to  care." 

A  pause  fell  between  them;  words  were  empty, 
as  is  the  wind  in  a  blue  sky.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life  Rosalind  felt  that  deep  communion  of  spirit 
which  is  so  rare  in  mortal  worlds.  They  stood  for 
a  while  in  the  clear  morning  with  heads  high,  silent 
and  thoughtful,  made  akin  by  the  subtleties  of  like 
and  dislike ;  then  turned  and  slowly  moved  down  the 
slope,  still  silent.  They  were  almost  afraid  to 
speak.  There  had  been  more  than  a  vision  of  nature 
in  the  panorama  on  which  they  turned  their  backs, 
and  they  could  find  no  words  to  express  that  which 
at  first  mortality  can  never  understand. 

The  day  of  the  dinner  arrived.  After  a  week  in 
which  she  had  been  thrown  continually  with  Eric 
to  the  exclusion  of  every  one  else,  Rosalind  could  not 
regard  the  event  without  concern.  It  was  worse 
than  casting  a  pearl  before  swine;  it  was  casting  a 
pearl  before  a  connoisseur  in  jewellery,  an  action  nat- 
urally repellent  to  any  woman  in  her  senses.  All 
women  are  protectionist  at  heart;  there  is  not  a  one 
of  them  who  in  the  matter  of  the  opposite  sex  be- 
lieves in  the  open-door  policy.  Rosalind  began  to 
wish  that  she  had  not  been  so  rash  in  her  launching 
of  Eric  on  the  social  sea.  Never  a  week  in  her 
life  had  passed  more  happily  than  the  one  just 
finished.  Nothing  had  been  amiss;  she  had  found 
Eric  as  lovable  as  he  was  handsome  and  as  interest- 
ing as  he  was  gifted.  Attracted  to  him  primarily  by 


WHAT  PATRICIA  THOUGHT       159 

his  great  personal  charm  and  beauty,  she  later  found 
in  his  naivete,  in  his  warmth  of  heart,  and  in  his 
kindred  interests  and  ambitions  the  causes  for  much 
more  than  mere  attraction.  Love  had  come  to  her 
quickly,  with  the  superb  suddenness  of  the  first  note 
in  a  symphony.  When  it  had  once  begun  to  vibrate, 
that  note  swelled  into  a  diapason  that  flooded  her 
whole  life  with  music. 

There  were  two  things  to  trouble  her.  Having 
assured  Benjamin  that  she  could  never  love  any  one 
greatly,  she  now  found  her  life  impregnated  with  a 
mighty  adoration.  Far  from  being  concerned  over 
this  contradiction,  she  found  it  rather  delightful  than 
otherwise;  but  Benjamin's  unhappiness  did  hurt. 
Her  regard  for  Eric  soon  made  itself  apparent  to 
his  ready  watchfulness.  One  does  not  need  to  ex- 
plain such  things  to  a  man  who  loves;  there  are  a 
thousand  thousand  unconscious  mannerisms,  affecta- 
tions, glances,  words,  expressions,  all  of  which  be- 
tray what  is  supposedly  concealed.  Explanation 
surely  boggles  such  a  business ;  tacit  revelation  is  the 
more  sure  —  and  the  more  painful.  In  the  midst  of 
her  happiness  Rosalind  felt  Benjamin's  grief  as  one 
is  aware  of  the  prick  of  a  thorn  hidden  under  a  pro- 
fusion of  roses.  A  second  thorn  was  Patricia  Can- 
field.  Rosalind  had  not  told  Eric  of  their  meeting; 
she  had  pushed  her  old  friend  as  far  out  of  her  mind 
as  possible.  But  it  was  of  no  use  to  submerge 
Patricia  in  her  thoughts;  as  if  made  of  cork,  she 
bobbed  to  the  surface,  a  perpetual  bogey.  Having 
consistently  recoiled  from  probing  the  matter  in  her 
heart,  Rosalind  felt,  as  she  sat  waiting  for  the  guests 
to  arrive  that  Friday  evening,  that  she  would  have 
been  far  better  off  to  have  made  up  her  mind  to  the 
matter  long  ago  and  introduced  Eric  and  Patricia  be- 


160  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

fore  things  had  gone  so  far  with  herself.  But  what 
was  done,  was  done;  and  her  business  this  night  was 
to  use  a  very  bright  pair  of  eyes  and  a  very  sharp 
pair  of  ears  to  the  best  advantage. 

The  guests  were  politely  late,  except  Dr.  Gary 
and  Patricia.  By  reason  of  living  life  on  a  schedule 
the  great  surgeon  was  never  late  on  any  occasion,  and 
arrived  at  eight  precise.  But  Patricia,  who  in  her 
whole  life  had  never  been  on  time  for  anything,  was 
the  last  to  arrive.  As  she  moved  across  the  room 
to  speak  to  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton,  she  was  the 
observed  of  all  observers.  She  always  was  the  last 
arrival  at  a  dinner  party,  and,  since  truisms  are  never 
spiteful  on  pretty  lips,  her  friends  agreed  that  she 
staged  her  entrances  well.  Even  Rosalind  could  not 
fail  to  admire  her  dark  beauty;  it  was  as  irresistible 
as  her  dress,  the  latest  importation  from  Paris, 
which  must  have  given  even  to  that  city  a  fillip  of 
excitement.  If  Patricia  was  generous  in  displaying 
her  neck  and  shoulders,  however,  she  felt  assured 
that  the  most  exacting  judge  who  ever  sat  in  judg- 
ment had  no  license  to  cavil.  If  men  craned  their 
necks,  it  was  a  success;  if  ladies  gasped,  it  was  a 
triumph.  As  she  swept  across  the  room  with  grace- 
ful and  sinuous  assurance,  she  courted  ogling  from 
one  sex  and  indignation  from  the  other  —  and,  since 
she  aroused  both,  was  pleased  beyond  words. 

Fixing  her  eyes  on  Eric,  Rosalind  noted  the  sur- 
prise on  his  face  at  Patricia's  entrance  immediately 
transformed  into  the  most  winning  smile  imaginable. 
As  she  saw  them  shaking  hands  and  observed  Pa- 
tricia behaving  in  a  way  calculated  to  reduce  the  most 
catholic-minded  man  in  the  world  to  an  idolatrous 
state,  she  doubly  doubted  the  wisdom  of  her  invita- 


WHAT  PATRICIA  THOUGHT       161 

tion.  Her  glance  followed  them  to  a  corner,  where 
they  fell  into  a  most  earnest  talk.  From  the  fatuous 
smile  on  Eric's  face,  it  was  apparent  that  Patricia, 
past  mistress  in  the  manipulation  of  that  most  deadly 
instrument,  the  trowel,  was  engaged  in  laying  it  on 
very  thick.  Tactically  Rosalind  had  made  a  mis- 
take. So  be  it!  It  was  her  fault,  and  no  regret, 
however  heartfelt,  could  put  spilt  milk  back  in  the 
pitcher.  With  this  sound  conclusion,  she  took  Mr. 
Swelfront's  arm  and  went  in  to  dinner.  Eric  and 
Patricia  she  had  seated  opposite;  Benjamin  was  two 
places  off;  she  herself  sat  between  Dr.  Gary  and  Mr. 
Swelfront,  whose  large  head  bore  on  it  fewer  hairs 
than  might  be  counted  on  the  fingers  of  both  hands. 
Its  sheen  in  the  candle-light  fascinated  Rosalind;  she 
felt  sure  that  it  would  have  made  an  excellent  ma- 
terial on  which  to  design  architectural  masterpieces. 
But  while  she  imaginatively  traced  cupolas  and  pal- 
aces and  town  houses  on  her  famous  guest's  head,  she 
was  busied  ocularly  in  watching  Eric  and  Patricia 
and  verbally  in  praising  the  architectural  capacities 
of  him  she  watched.  Even  in  the  midst  of  his  strug- 
gle with  the  asparagus,  Mr.  Swelfront  was  politely 
interested  and  promised  to  give  Eric  what  poor  in- 
formation and  introduction  lay  within  his  power;  at 
which  Rosalind  felt  well  pleased  with  herself,  for  a 
word  from  Mr.  Swelfront  was  sufficient  to  make 
sealed  doors  fly  wide.  His  name  was  the  Open 
Sesame  of  American  architecture. 

Yet  she  was  far  from  easy  in  her  mind.  It  was 
bad  enough  to  have  Benjamin  two  seats  away  with 
his  reproving  eyes  continually  upon  her  without  the 
added  torture  of  Eric  and  Patricia  speaking  French 
in  an  undertone  across  the  table.  What  were  they 


i'6t  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

saying?  Patricia  was  animated,  eager,  impulsive  as 
ever,  filled  with  the  reckless  unconcern  of  to-day. 
These  might  be  commonplaces  which  she  murmured 
to  Eric,  leaning  close  to  him,  warm  and  beautiful. 
If  they  were,  why  need  Eric  dart  so  smiling  a  glance 
at  his  companion?  Why  need  he  seem  so  tender  in 
his  demeanour;  why  dilate  upon  Patricia,  seemingly 
regardless  of  the  lady  on  his  right?  And  even  com- 
monplaces, spoken  in  French,  seem  much  more  deep 
and  wicked ! 

For  a  moment  Eric's  eyes  turned  upon  herself. 
She  had  sought  to  attract  his  attention,  but  now 
averted  her  gaze,  losing  completely  a  valuable  dic- 
tum of  Mr.  Swelfront  regarding  the  architecture  of 
ancient  Smyrna.  Why  had  she  looked  away?  To 
rectify  a  conscious  mistake,  she  glanced  boldly  across 
the  table,  but  Eric  was  again  talking  animatedly  to 
his  companion.  Patricia  never  turned  her  eyes 
away;  if  one  gazed  at  her,  she  returned  the  look  with 
rich  interest. 

In  this  fashion  Rosalind  sat  through  the  entire 
dinner,  observing  every  move  of  Eric  and  Patricia 
to  the  tune  of  Mr.  Swelfront's  drone,  an  occupation 
far  more  trying  than  diverting.  When  the  ladies 
had  left  the  gentlemen  and  retired  to  the  drawing- 
room,  Patricia  flew  to  her  side. 

'*  Rosey,  you're  a  dear  to  put  me  next  to  Eric.  I 
had  a  perfect  time." 

'  You  seemed  to,  Pat,"  Rosalind  assented  a  bit 
coldly.  She  did  not  wish  to  discuss  Eric  with  Pa- 
tricia; any  association  of  the  two  was  distasteful  to 
her.  But  curiosity  got  the  better  of  her  proud  re- 
serve. '  You  and  he  seem  to  have  become  well 
enough  acquainted  on  the  boat." 


WHAT  PATRICIA  THOUGHT       163 

"  Acquainted,  Rosey !  Do  you  know  what  I 
think?" 

"  No  one  does,  Pat." 

"  I  think  that  if  I  gave  that  young  man  half  a 
chance,  he'd  propose  to  me.  I  do,  indeed!  " 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A    CONVERSATION   IN   THE    SQUARE 

THE  remark  of  Patricia's  with  which  the  last 
chapter  closed  caused  Rosalind  much  unhap- 
piness.  Though  it  acted  as  a  confirmation  of 
her  fears  in  its  seeming  assurance  that  her  love  was 
hopeless,  it  did  not  in  the  least  alleviate  the  pangs  of 
that  feeling.  Some  time  before  the  dinner  she  had 
found  herself  deeply  in  love  with  Eric.  Together 
they  had  spent  a  week  of  quiet  beauty  with  no  one  to 
interfere  in  their  friendship,  and  Rosalind  had  dimly 
hoped  that  thus  alone,  the  world  forgetting,  they 
might  struggle  side  by  side  up  sunlit  hills  or  investi- 
gate sequestered  crannies  of  life  in  an  unending  suc- 
cession of  blissful  days.  She  had  come  to  regard 
Eric,  if  not  as  her  own  property,  still  as  a  being  pe- 
culiarly allied  by  circumstance  to  her  and  to  her 
alone.  In  a  single  evening  this  was  changed;  in  a 
single  evening  Virginie  found  that  there  were  other 
maidens  upon  their  exotic  island  against  whose 
blandishing  eyes  Paul  was  not  proof.  When  the 
dinner  had  broken  up  and  Rosalind  was  being 
whirled  home  in  her  automobile,  she  dramatically 
assured  herself  that  never  again  could  her  relations 
with  Eric  —  or  with  any  other  man  —  be  what  they 
had  been.  She  had  learned  her  lesson,  and  it  had 
changed  her  mightily.  In  her  sorrow,  half  petulant, 
half  sincere,  she  renounced  men.  Yet  in  the  very 
moment  of  her  renunciation,  her  heart  echoed  the 

164 


CONVERSATION  IN  THE  SQUARE     165 

falseness  of  this  abandonment  by  an  insistent  recapit- 
ulation of  her  happiness  and  its  downfall.  She 
knew  not  what  to  think.  Those  that  become  the 
plaything  of  jealousy  seldom  recognise  their  peril  in 
its  incipient  state. 

As  she  lay  in  her  bed  unable  to  sleep,  Patricia 
haunted  her  thoughts.  Once  again  her  old  friend, 
the  source  of  many  girlish  tears  in  her  school  days, 
was  at  the  bottom  of  her  unhappiness.  Yet  she 
could  blame  no  one.  Patricia  was  her  friend;  she 
herself  had  invited  her ;  on  her  own  volition  she  had 
risked  incurring  this  unhappiness.  Yes,  and  she  was 
glad  that  she  had  done  so,  she  protested  to  herself, 
very  glad!  It  was  better  to  know  Eric's  state  of 
mind  than  to  become  involved  in  a  hopeless  love. 
But  was  it  better?  Should  she  not  have  been  happy, 
if  Patricia  had  never  come  between  them?  She 
might  never  have  known;  she  and  Eric  might  have 
become  happily  engaged  and  married.  Yet  there 
are  post-marital  infelicities  more  bitter  still  than 
lovers'  quarrels.  What  if  Patricia  might  have  had 
some  power  to  fascinate  Eric  after  their  marriage? 
There  would  have  lain  the  crudest  gall.  Shatter  the 
heart  and  age  may  mend  its  fracture;  but  shatter 
the  hearth  and  no  agency,  divine  or  mortal,  can 
rekindle  the  fire  which  has  once  gone  out.  Eric's 
behaviour,  if  nothing  else,  justified  Patricia's  invi- 
tation. "What  a  piece  of  work  is  a  man!  How 
noble  in  reason!  How  infinite  in  faculty" — and 
how  prodigal  in  love !  For  a  pretty  smile  and  a 
pretty  amenity  he  will  think  himself  rich  as  any  ma- 
harajah  of  Orient  empire.  The  meanest  man  in 
love  is  a  poet,  with  knowledge  to  profess  and  under- 
stand the  harmony  of  spheres  —  and  only  too  ready 
on  the  slightest  provocation  to  fancy  that  he  hears 


i66  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

that  silver-sounding  music  in  the  voice  of  every 
woman  who  flatters  him  with  her  favour.  Because 
man  is  an  egotist,  woman  leads  him  by  the  nose;  be- 
cause he  is  fatuous,  he  thinks  it  is  his  nose  which  is 
leading  woman.  Alas  for  Eric!  Rosalind  had 
thought  him  made  of  some  finer  stuff,  "  in  action  like 
an  angel,  in  apprehension  like  a  god  " ;  she  found  him 
after  all  a  mortal,  and  like  so  many  others  of  his 
kind,  a  victim  to  Patricia's  wiles.  She  had  seen 
other  young  men  taken  captive  in  like  manner  with 
considerable  amusement,  but  the  substitution  of  the 
individual  case  for  the  general  was  far  from  divert- 
ing. 

In  a  moment  of  pique  she  had  given  Benjamin 
a  promise  to  play  golf  on  the  next  afternoon,  half  in 
anger  with  Eric,  half  in  a  reproof  quite  unintelligible 
to  him.  For  the  moment  the  promise  had  raised  her 
pride  and  she  held  her  head  high  in  queenly  dis- 
regard of  what  another  might  do. 

To  Benjamin  her  promise  was  like  manna.  His 
mind  was  not  the  complex  organ  of  a  woman  in  love, 
nor  could  it  understand  the  mutations  of  her  heart. 
Dark  things  to  him  were  black;  light  things  trooped 
in  the  category  of  white.  The  multifarious  inter- 
mediate shades  which  lend  colour  and  fineness  to 
exquisite  temperaments  were  entirely  lost  to  his  mat- 
ter-of-fact comprehension.  To  a  man  who  knows 
but  the  sun,  the  world  by  night  is  a  dark  place  indeed. 
Only  the  finer  eyes  may  see  the  stars. 

Making  resolutions  when  one  is  in  love  is  like 
throwing  into  the  air  directly  above  one's  head  a 
large  stone  and  waiting  for  it  to  descend.  For  a 
time  the  thrower  is  disembarrassed  of  his  weight, 
but  the  longer  he  stands  where  he  is  the  more  rapidly 


CONVERSATION  IN  THE  SQUARE     167 

increases  the  unpleasant  imminence  of  the  rock's  re- 
turn; for  a  moment  the  lover's  resolution  clears  the 
mind  and  makes  valiant  the  will,  but  the  longer  he 
who  makes  it  remains  in  love  the  weaker  becomes 
the  resolve.  The  same  divine  gravity  which  governs 
the  rock  governs  the  lover's  resolution ;  in  either  case 
the  dependency  upon  human  volition  is  nil.  What 
lover  but  resolves  a  dozen  excellences  in  the  sobriety 
of  morning  only  to  forget  them  in  the  madness  of 
eve?  Who  has  not  put  in  his  bedside  prayers  re- 
nunciations of  some  fickle  heart  and  waked  in  the 
full  sunlight  of  morning  to  find  courage  sufficient  for 
still  another  day's  devotion?  A  lover's  pledge  shall 
survive  the  promised  end,  but  a  lover's  resolution  is 
too  gossamer  in  web  to  hold  a  gnat  to  duty.  Thus 
with  Rosalind.  Having  resolved  to  hold  aloof  from 
Eric,  having  fallen  to  sleep  in  a  drowsy  declaration 
to  herself  that  he  must  come  to  her  if  they  were  ever 
to  meet  again,  she  found  in  the  morning  wiser 
counsel.  Perhaps  he  would  not  understand ;  perhaps 
he  might  never  come.  The  Jeanne  d'Arc  which  is  in 
all  women  rose  within  her.  It  mattered  not  that  she 
bitterly  doubted  to  herself  the  possibility  of  meeting 
him  again  as  if  nothing  had  occurred :  the  battle  is  to 
the  adventurous.  She  put  on  her  hat,  and  excitedly 
sallied  forth  into  the  sunshine. 

Mr.  Rolland,  so  Edouard  informed  her,  was  out 
walking,  but  would  soon  return.  Though  she  had 
regarded  meeting  him  with  a  nervous  hesitation,  she 
went  up  to  her  godfather,  disappointed  and  cast 
down  that  Eric  was  not  in  the  house. 

"  Uncle  Sing-Sing,"  she  asked,  after  an  affection- 
ate kiss,  "  did  the  party  tire  you  too  much?  " 

"No,  dear.     No.     Am  I  pale?" 

Despite  a  certain  novel  brilliancy  of  eye  and  what 


1 68  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

seemed  to  be  a  real  desire  to  speak,  she  thought  the 
invalid  more  pallid  and  wasted  than  ever,  the  lack 
of  colour  made  all  the  more  evident  by  the  lustre  in 
those  eyes  that  for  so  long  a  time  had  been  dull. 

"  Only  tired,  dear  heart,"  Rosalind  lied  glibly. 
"  Was  it  cruel  in  me?  There  was  Eric,  you  know; 
he  was  having,  I  suppose,  rather  a  stuffy  time  with 
no  one  but  me  of  his  own  age  to  see  and  talk  to." 

"  I  don't  believe  it."  Her  godfather  smiled  ten- 
derly. 

"  It  was  natural  that  he  should  want  to  meet  peo- 
ple. I  dragged  a  promise  from  Mr.  Swelfront  to 
take  him  under  his  wing.  You  should  have  heard 
me  advertise  him  during  dinner;  he'll  never  have  a 
better  press-agent." 

"  I  hope  not." 

'Thanks,  dear.  Why  are  great  men  bores? 
Mr.  Swelfront's  bonmots  dated  back  to  the  Mycen- 
aean Age !  I  was  dying  to  recommend  him  my  hair 
tonic  —  it  worked  miracles  with  Papa.  We  passed 
the  time  of  day  discussing  Greek  temples.  I  fol- 
lowed him  closely  through  the  Acropolis,  but  when 
we  forded  the  Hellespont  and  moved  towards  Baby- 
lon the  conversation  turned  into  a  monologue  punc- 
tured by  asparagus.  His  appetite  saved  me  from 
an  untimely  end." 

'*  Why  Patricia  ?  "  asked  the  invalid  irrelevantly. 

"  Patricia  ?  "  Rosalind  repeated  vaguely  with  a 
little  flush  in  each  cheek.  "  Oh,  I  —  I  thought  she 
—  she  might  amuse  Eric.  He  met  her  on  the  boat, 
you  know." 

"  She  did." 

"Did  amuse  him?"  Rosalind  looked  away. 
"  Yes,  she  has  a  way  with  men.  Eric  —  Eric  — " 

"Do  you  like  him?" 


CONVERSATION  IN  THE  SQUARE     169 

They  had  not  discussed  the  visitor  in  many  words 
before.  For  once  in  her  life  Rosalind  found  it 
strange  and  hard  to  answer  her  godfather,  found 
actual  embarrassment  in  the  question  of  her  habitual 
confidant. 

u  I  never  loved  Ben,  godfather.  You  know  that. 
But  with  Eric  —  well,  it's  nothing  like  Ben.  Eric 
is—" 

She  broke  off.  A  black  cat  prowled  about  the 
grass-plot  in  the  Square  on  the  watch  for  birds. 
With  her  hand  clasped  tight  in  her  godfather's, 
Rosalind  stared  at  the  marauder. 

'  I  am  glad,  Rose." 

"  I  thought  you  would  be,  dear,  when  I  saw  how 
fond  you  were  of  him.  I  might  well  be  the  jealous 
one  this  time !  " 

There  was  a  pause  between  them.  The  cat  had 
ambushed  itself  behind  the  little  statue  of  Columbus 
with  malicious  intentions  on  a  fat  robin,  greedily 
eyeing  the  turf. 

"  Eric  is  so  like  his  mother." 

"  Yes.     He  makes  one  think  of  her  miniature." 

"  And  it  is  her  voice,  too." 

"Who  would  not  love  him?"  Her  enthusiasm 
bubbled  over  restraint.  "  Surely  he  is  handsome 
and  talented  and  sympathetic;  and  more,  too,  I  know. 
And  he  has  a  poise  to  his  head  that  American  men 
lack.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean?  A  woman  al- 
ways looks  to  see  how  a  man  carries  himself." 

In  a  sortie  the  cat  failed  to  capture  its  prey,  which 
flew  to  the  wrought  iron  fence  with  indignant  chat- 
tering. 

Is  he  happy  here?  " 

"I  —  I  think  so,  Uncle  Sing-Sing.  Of  course. 
Why  not?"  As  she  turned  her  eyes  to  her  god- 


iyo  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

father's  face,  she  wondered  if  Eric  had  found  her 
companionship  dull.  "  Has  he  said  anything?  " 

*  No.     Must  be  stupid  with  me." 

"  He  does  not  need  many  people  to  make  him 
happy.  With  his  books  and  music  he  is  content. 
How  beautifully  he  plays !  I  suppose  he  inherits  his 
talent  from  his  father." 

"  I  think  not,"  the  invalid  returned  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Why,  his  father  — " 

"  Let's  not  talk  of  his  father." 

The  sharp  note  in  the  dull  voice  surprised  Rosa- 
lind into  silence.  What  was  hidden  in  this  lavender 
romance  to  bring  so  marked  a  change  in  her  god- 
father's manner?  Without  glancing  at  him  she  fell 
into  a  reverie.  Outside  a  lumbering  spaniel  had 
driven  the  black  cat  into  one  of  the  ragged  old  elms, 
at  the  foot  of  which  he  was  yelping  himself  inside 
out.  From  its  refuge  the  cat  regarded  her  tor- 
mentor with  delicious  unconcern. 

The  arrival  of  Edouard  cut  short  both  Rosalind's 
reconstruction  of  a  romantic  past  for  her  godfather 
and  her  observation  of  further  developments  in  the 
warfare  on  the  green.  With  the  assistance  of  a 
footman,  Edouard  towed  the  invalid  to  his  bedroom 
for  a  rest,  leaving  Rosalind  to  walk  down  stairs, 
undetermined  what  to  do.  Though  eager  to  see 
Eric,  she  felt  so  aggrieved  by  his  absence  that  she  de- 
termined to  leave  without  meeting  him.  Pride  reas- 
serted itself.  She  walked  slowly  to  the  door;  then, 
a  wave  of  resentment  sweeping  over  her,  suddenly 
ran  down  the  steps.  Ten  paces  off  Eric  came  strid- 
ing towards  her. 

"  Not  going?  "  he  cried  out. 

Rosalind  bit  her  lip. 

"  I  was,"  she  replied  doubtfully. 


CONVERSATION  IN  THE  SQUARE     171 

"But  you're  not  now?  Oh,  please  don't  go 
away!  "  he  appealed.  To  Rosalind  he  looked  radi- 
ant and  beautiful  in  the  soft  sunshine  of  the  Square, 
like  some  exotic  plant  in  an  old  manor  garden.  She 
smiled.  "  That's  better.  I  hoped  I'd  find  you  here. 
Let's  get  over  the  fence;  it's  too  beautiful  to  go  in- 
doors. We  can  sit  down  on  the  grass  and  talk." 

In  a  moment  she  found  herself  being  helped  over 
the  old  iron  fence,  a  suspicion  of  white  petticoat  and 
pretty  ankle  fluttering  for  a  moment  in  the  face  of  the 
staid  old  Square.  Discouraged  by  the  eminence 
of  the  cat's  vantage,  the  noisy  spaniel  had  trotted 
off  in  search  of  more  accessible  worlds  to  conquer, 
leaving  the  green  in  peaceful  quiet.  Rosalind  seated 
herself  with  her  back  against  one  of  the  elms. 

"  I  have  been  down  by  the  river,  reading,"  Eric 
explained,  stretching  himself  full  length  on  the  warm 
grass  beside  her,  his  face  raised  on  his  palms. 
When  Rosalind  looked  down,  she  found  his  brow 
wrinkled  and  his  green  eyes  upturned. 

"What?"  she  asked,  catching  up  the  book. 
"Oscar  Wilde!" 

"  Yes :  *  Lady  Windermere's  Fan.'  It  is  a  most 
entertaining  thing.  I  could  not  lay  it  down  till  I 
had  finished  it,  and  so  almost  missed  you." 

"  There  is  one  magnificent  line  in  it.  How  does 
it  go?  ^  'All  of  us—'" 

"  It  is  the  very  one  that  struck  me !  I  turned  the 
page.  *  We  are  all  in  the  gutter,  but  some  of  us 
are  looking  at  the  stars !  ' 

"  It  makes  him  worth  while  —  just  that  one  line. 
You  will  be  interested,  Eric:  my  Chief  at  Brimmer 
House  used  to  quote  it  inverted." 

''Inverted?" 

'  Yes.     She   said   it   gave   the   idea   of  charity. 


1 72  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

'  We  are  all  in  the  stars,  but  some  of  us  are  looking 
at  the  gutter.'  ' 

"But  we  aren't!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  Eric.  She  meant  we  all  have  our  ideals 
and  aspirations,  no  matter  how  poor  or  miserable, 
but  some  of  us,  though  we  do  live  in  our  stars,  look 
down  at  those  really  suffering  in  the  gutter." 

"  I  see  .  .  .  Rose,  do  you  often  think  about  such 
things?  " 

"Often?  No,  not  often,  but  sometimes  I  do. 
Why?" 

"  I  don't  know.  So  few  girls  do  now  —  and  men, 
too,  for  that  matter." 

"  I  don't  believe  girls  in  other  times  thought  of 
them  any  more,  Eric." 

"  Perhaps.  Still  I  sometimes  think  it  would  be 
a  good  thing  if  a  great  flood  or  a  plague  or  a  war 
were  to  devastate  this  world.  Then  more  people 
would  look  in  the  gutter.  If  this  world  were 
wracked  with  suffering,  people  wouldn't  seek  Jesus 
Christ  so  much  for  their  own  sakes ;  they  would  seek 
Him  for  others." 

"  Of  course  we're  unchristian  now;  religion  is  no 
longer  the  mode.  But  surely  you're  not  going  to  ad- 
vocate a  war!  What  can  be  more  unchristian? 
Two  wrongs,  you  know  — " 

"  What  can  be  more  unchristian?  Why,  the  way 
most  of  us  live  to-day !  That  thing  at  Mrs.  Preble's 
is  a  trifle,  a  small  instance  of  what  I  mean.  To  be 
slain  in  an  honourable  cause  is  far  more  Christian 
than  to  attend  that  mockery !  " 

"I  went,  Eric.     Am  I  unchristian?" 

"  I  wish  you  had  not  gone.     Why  did  you  go?  " 

Rosalind  paused  before  replying,  literally 
astounded.  To  see  Eric  ride  the  high  moral  horse, 


CONVERSATION  IN  THE  SQUARE     173 

to  have  his  serious  reproofs  for  her  sins  come  flood- 
ing in  her  brain,  there  to  mix  with  the  torrent  of  re- 
proach she  felt  towards  him  on  account  of  Patricia, 
left  her  helpless.  Could  he  know  Patricia's  ways 
and  yet  reproach  herself?  Surely  his  conversation 
with  her  friend  the  night  before  had  borne  no  out- 
ward semblance  of  reproof.  Did  he  tolerate  Pa- 
tricia's sins  with  a  smile  to  find  hers  reprehensible 
with  a  serious  mien?  She  flushed.  Surely  he  was 
not  making  sport  of  her?  No,  these  were  earnest 
eyes,  so  earnest  that  she  found  them  embarrassing, 
and  forgot  her  anger  in  an  attempt  to  justify  herself 
before  them. 

"I  —  I  went  because  I  was  curious.  You  do  not 
think  the  less  of  me  ?  You  did  not  think  I  went  be- 
cause I  approved  of  such  a  thing?  " 

"  I  was  sure  you  did  not,  but  then  —  who  can  be 
sure  of  anything?  I  am  not  sure  of  myself!  " 

"  Why,  Eric,  I  did  not  know  you  were  so  puri- 
tanical! You  surely  do  not  appear  so." 

"Who  isn't  puritanical  in  theory?" 

"  No  one  except  the  devil !  " 

"And  you  never  thought  me  him?  Why,  I  am 
infinitely  puritanical.  As  much  as  you  are,  Rose.  I 
was  quite  noted  for  my  views  in  Cheltenham." 

"Really?     Your  views?" 

"  Just  so.  That's  the  trouble,  though.  I  have 
the  best  intentions  in  the  world.  I  am  most  charit- 
able; it  puts  me  in  tears  to  see  little  children  suffer, 
to  hear  the  cries  of  poverty  and  want.  If  you  were 
to  tell  me  that  by  giving  the  money  for  a  new  suit  of 
clothes  I  could  save  a  baby's  life,  and  were  to  name 
to  me  the  baby,  I  would  go  without  the  suit  gladly. 
But  I  don't  go  without  the  suit;  I  am  always  well- 
dressed.  Nobody  names  the  baby;  so  I  go  on  buy- 


i74  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

ing  new  suits  in  spite  of  a  vague  knowledge  of  the 
power  of  the  money  which  I  spend  for  them.  My 
intentions  are  good,  and  I  have  a  kind  heart. 
I  am  religious;  I  am  charitable;  I  am  willing  to 
serve." 

"  Then  what  troubles  you,  Eric?  " 

"  I  hardly  know.  I  suppose  it's  that  a  good  deal 
of  all  this  is  in  my  head  and  not  actuality.  These 
are  my  '  views.'  Then,  of  course,  I'm  poor.  My 
father  is  recklessly  extravagant.  If  he  earns  a  for- 
tune, he  spends  it  all.  Why  shouldn't  he  ?  It's  his. 
My  dear  mother  left  only  a  little.  But  for  your 
godfather's  kindness  this  visit  would  have  been  im- 
possible." 

"  I  had  not  known." 

"  Maman  told  me  to  come:  so  I  came." 

"  I  am  glad  you  did,  Eric." 

"  Are  you?     So  am  I,  tout  a  fait  bien  aise." 

"  Except  when  you  worry  over  your  intentions?  " 
Rosalind  asked  with  the  shadow  of  a  smile.  She 
scarcely  knew  what  prompted  her  to  make  so  point- 
less a  remark.  Eric  had  fathomed  her  eyes  as  he 
asked  the  question,  and  had  raised  himself  till  his 
face  was  yet  closer  to  hers. 

"  Ah,  my  intentions,  my  poor,  abused  intentions !  " 
He  let  himself  sprawl  back  with  unconscious  grace 
upon  the  grass.  "  They  have  no  more  spine  than 
myself  now;  or  shall  we  call  it  dormant  spine?" 
He  laughed,  enchantingly  Rosalind  thought,  and  the 
sun  was  bright  on  his  teeth.  He  might  have  been  a 
latter-day  Cephalus  resting  from  the  chase,  garbed 
in  the  uncouth  habiliments  of  a  century  which  de- 
stroys all  beauty  save  that  which  it  chooses  to  petrify 
in  museums.  "  I  feel  those  intentions,  Rose. 
When  I  walk  through  a  miserable,  ugly  district  like 


CONVERSATION  IN  THE  SQUARE     175 

your  West  End,  I  feel  that  it  is  I  who  am  the  blot  on 
the  landscape,  however  poor  it  may  be.  What  right 
have  I  to  walk  in  my  smart  clothes  before  these 
over-crowded,  wretched  homes?  I  do  it  at  times  to 
prove  that  I  am  not  a  coward,  but  truly  I  feel  like 
running  away." 

"  I  doubt  if  the  poor  notice  you." 

"  That  makes  it  worse ;  the  struggle  then  is  all 
with  myself.  I  tell  you,  Rose,  some  day  I  shall 
throw  a  paving  stone  at  some  of  these  smug,  self- 
satisfied,  well-fed  men  and  women  who  motor  com- 
placently through  the  sad  streets  of  big  cities. 
Canaille  they  call  the  poor,  too !  I'd  like  to  canaille 
them !  A  paving  stone  in  their  stodgy  faces  would 
be  more  benefit  than  a  dozen  beauty  parlours." 

"  Why,  what  an  excitable  person  you  are !  You 
never  have  told  me,  Eric,  of  your  interest  in  social- 
ism." 

"  It  is  the  interest  of  any  man  who  thinks  he  is 
put  in  the  world  for  more  than  eating  and  sleeping. 
If  I  do  not  talk  about  my  intentions,  none  the  less 
I  have  them." 

"  I  believe  you,   Eric." 

"  I  knew  you  would.  We  understand  each  other. 
If  we  aren't  better  than  other  people,  we  at  least 
realise  that  we  should  try  to  be;  we  realise  that  we 
should  put  into  life  the  very  best,  if  we  are  to  take 
out  the  very  best.  Life  should  be  lived  at  concert 
pitch.  I  should  like  to  live  mine  so." 

"Mr.  Eric!"  It  was  Edouard  who  spoke.  He 
stood,  politely  deprecatory,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
fence.  "  I  beg  pardon,  Miss  Rosalind.  It's  Miss 
Canfield  on  the  telephone,  sir."  (A  sudden  stiff- 
ness laid  hold  upon  Rosalind  at  the  name.)  "She 
says  she  has  the  two  seats  in  the  front  row,  and 


i76  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

wants  you  to  call  for  her  at  Mrs.  Treble's  house, 
sir." 

"  Please  thank  her,  and  tell  her  that  I  shall  be 
there  at  one  o'clock.  Thank  you,  Edouard.  Now 
I  say  that's  awfully  kind  of  her,"  he  went  on,  turning 
to  Rosalind.  "  Put  herself  to  no  end  of  trouble  to 
get  seats  to  this  play.  She's  a  most  vivacious,  at- 
tractive girl." 

With  such  terrible  suddenness  was  the  subject 
changed.  O,  heavy  declension!  Here  was  Zeus 
become  a  bull,  a  prince  become  a  prentice,  a  dis- 
courser  upon  the  moral  profundities  of  socialism  and 
temperament  become  the  admirer  of  a  pretty  face 
and  a  flippant  tongue.  To  man  the  contiguity  of 
Christian  morality  and  a  Patricia  represents  nothing 
shocking;  but  to  woman,  in  whom  high  exaltations 
dominate  both  during  and  after  the  period  of  stress, 
a  lofty  subject  unless  loftily  completed  is  poppycock. 
Rosalind  found  the  change  in  theme  unbearable. 
As  much  as  she  disliked  Patricia,  she  disliked  Eric's 
precedent  moralising  more.  She  longed  to  ask  him 
whether  he  thought  Patricia  unchristian.  Bah! 
His  "  concert  pitch  "  was  sham !  At  the  moment  he 
spoke  the  phrase,  no  doubt  his  mind  was  contemplat- 
ing the  afternoon  at  the  theatre  with  Patricia. 
Rosalind  bit  her  lip  and  arose;  she  should  not  detain 
him. 

'You  have  known  her  before,   Rose?" 

"  I  went  to  school  with  her." 

"  You  were  lucky  then."  Rosalind  felt  her 
cheeks  burn.  "  We  came  over  on  the  same  boat, 
and  I  have  never  been  so  entertained.  She  seems 
characteristically  French." 

"  Her  mother  lives  in  France  for  her  health." 
In  an  attempt  to  read  a  vicious  meaning  into  the  last 


CONVERSATION  IN  THE  SQUARE     177 

three  words  Rosalind's  sweet  voice  failed  signally. 
"  She  was  born  and  bred  in  Boston." 

"  But  she  is  certainly  different  from  Boston  girls," 
laughed  the  unconscious  Eric,  as  he  helped  Rosalind 
over  the  fence.  "  Must  you  go  back  now?  " 

"  Yes."  She  spoke  jerkily.  She  felt  an  emotion 
which,  if  her  intuition  taught  her  to  diagnose,  it  did 
not  teach  her  also  to  combat.  "  I  hope  —  you  en- 
joy —  the  play.  Good-bye." 

She  turned  and  almost  ran  out  of  the  Square  with 
Eric's  last  words  afire  in  her  ears :  "  she  is  certainly 
different  from  Boston  girls."  Yes,  thank  God, 
Rosalind  cried  passionately  to  herself,  Patricia  cer- 
tainly was  different.  With  what  a  smile  he  had  said 
it,  with  what  a  meaning!  Yet  the  moment  before 
he  had  been  gazing  in  her  face  with  such  intensity 
that  his  life  might  have  hung  upon  her  lips.  This 
was  her  paragon  of  virtues  and  excellence !  This 
was  the  prodigy  trumpeted  forth  to  Mr.  Swelfront ! 
This  was  her  fond-imagined  tutelary  genius !  An 
automobile  flashed  by  in  misty  outlines ;  the  bricks  at 
her  feet  were  confused  and  blinding;  and  in  her 
eyes  unbidden  tears  screwed  themselves  over  her  eye- 
lids and  glistened  on  her  lashes.  Petty  incidents 
often  reveal  great  truths.  This  little  conversation 
in  the  Square  told  Rosalind  of  the  immensity  of  her 
love.  If  a  stream  of  water  is  dashed  suddenly  into 
a  vase  which  can  well  accommodate  its  volume,  the 
violence  of  its  entrance  may  often  shatter  the  vessel. 
As  she  panted  home,  Rosalind  felt  the  agony  of  mis- 
prized love  breaking  her  heart. 

Going  to  her  room,  she  sat  down  moodily  at  the 
desk.  Her  excitability  had  worn  off;  now  was  left 
the  gloom  of  consideration. 

"  Rose !  "     Jack's  voice  called  outside  her  door. 


178  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  Ben  Gary's  come  in  his  car  about  some  golf  with 
you.  What  shall  I  say?  " 

Golf?  With  Benjamin?  In  this  state  of  mind? 
A  shadowy  smile  at  the  absurdity  of  the  suggestion 
curled  her  lips.  If  there  was  one  thing  in  the  world 
she  could  not  do,  would  not  do,  had  not  the  heart  to 
attempt  doing,  it  was  to  see  Benjamin  in  her  present 
desolate  condition.  Yet  even  as  her  lips  formed  the 
refusal  of  the  invitation,  her  demeanour  changed. 
A  fire  came  in  her  eye;  a  firmness  sat  upon  her  lip. 
Defiant  and  scornful  of  her  wound  and  of  the  person 
who  had  inflicted  it,  she  arose. 

"  Tell  Ben  that  I'm  coming  right  down.  I'll  play 
golf  with  him  —  certainly !  " 


CHAPTER  XV 

A   RUMOUR 

THE  weather,  that  divine  panacea  free  and  com- 
mon to  us  all,  cannot  be  denied  its  power. 
There  is  no  man  so  wearisomely  tugged  with 
fortune  but  the  sunshine  of  April  cannot  thrill  him 
to  the  midriff.  And  thank  God  for  it!  Thank 
God  that  what  is  forever  in  our  sight,  the  opening 
eyelids  of  morning,  the  arboreal  verdure,  the  star- 
clustered  firmament,  the  unmeasured  dance  of  waves, 
thank  God  that  all  of  these  rain  influence  while  the 
great  Potter  turns  his  wheel  above  our  mortal  clay. 
It  makes  us  feel  the  nearness  and  omnipresence  of 
God. 

Thus  it  was  with  Rosalind,  her  heart  strings 
snarled  into  a  very  knot  of  Gordius,  when  out  flamed 
the  vernal  sun,  a  divine  Alexander,  with  one  sharp- 
edged  ray  to  split  and  solve  all  difference.  As  we 
have  seen,  her  decision  to  accompany  Benjamin  had 
been  made  in  the  heroic  strain.  A  violent  grief  must 
be  combated  by  a  violent  cure  —  a  doctrine  akin  to 
that  mediaeval  homeopathy  which  prescribed  to  the 
chronic  neurasthenic  physic  of  a  sour  and  melancholy 
hue.  Yet  while  it  was  almost  pain  to  face  Ben- 
jamin at  first,  once  the  inertia  of  repugnance  over- 
come, things  went  better  than  Rosalind  had  looked 
for.  One  cannot  for  long  be  dramatic  unless  one 
is  to  the  manner  born.  Having  entered  Benjamin's 
automobile  whispering  to  herself  that  she  would  be 

179 


i8o  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

brave,  that  no  one  should  know  how  sad  she  felt, 
that  if  Eric  could  be  heartless  to  her,  she  could  be 
heartless  to  him,  Rosalind  found  herself  drifting  in 
the  grateful  sunshine  from  an  heroic  to  a  tender 
mood. 

As  for  Benjamin,  his  joy  was  childlike  and  un- 
forgettable. His  long  sojourn  under  swarthy  Sirius 
was  ended;  even  the  great  sun  himself  now  seemed  a 
beneficent  planet.  The  purest,  greatest  joys  are  all 
unreasoned:  to  weigh  and  measure  happiness  is  to 
destroy  its  bloom.  Benjamin  had  no  idea  of  the 
why  of  Rosalind's  acceptance  of  his  invitation.  A 
murrain  on  whys !  Was  she  not  side  by  his  side, 
hand  by  his  hand?  Reasons  and  past  unhappiness 
were  lost  in  the  train  of  the  pleasurable  moments 
which  were  passing.  If  he  had  been  jealous  of  Eric 
in  his  unyielding,  overpowering  fashion,  in  the  pres- 
ent moment  of  opportunity  and  felicity  his  jealousy 
was  forgotten  in  the  song  of  his  heart. 

Oftener  than  not  we  dislike  or  feel  constraint  for 
those  that  love  us  more  than  we  do  them.  Unless 
love  is  at  an  equilibrium,  the  balances  perforce  must 
hang  askew.  Yet  there  are  moments  when  we  melt 
to  those  importunate  friends,  moments  when  we  are 
generous,  not  for  love,  but  merely  for  the  sake  of  be- 
ing generous.  Such  a  moment  is  frequently  one  in 
which  we  endure  sorrow  in  ourselves  and  are  thus 
purged  to  a  gentle  kindness  towards  others.  Rosa- 
lind wanted  to  stretch  out  her  hand,  touch  Benjamin, 
and  whisper  a  word  of  sympathy;  but  the  mortal 
wall  of  reserve  belied  her  sensibility,  and  she  kept 
silent.  To  find  a  friend's  happiness  sadly  pleasant  is 
one  thing;  to  phrase  it  another. 

There  were  few  people  on  the  links ;  the  green  was 
practically  free  for  their  speed  or  leisure.  Though 


A  RUMOUR  181 

Rosalind  could  not  swing  into  the  game,  her  part- 
ner was  in  such  fettle  that  even  the  lackadaisical  eyes 
of  the  caddies  shone  with  benignancy.  It  was  a  de- 
light to  watch  the  joy  and  skill  of  his  swing,  and 
Rosalind  with  her  healthy  love  of  out-of-doors  found 
that  the  time  passed  far  faster  than  an  hour  earlier 
she  would  have  deemed  possible.  Through  the 
match  Benjamin  was  the  soul  of  patient,  kind  devo- 
tion, hovering  like  a  giant  guardian  by  her  side,  and 
she  found  his  attention  restful  and  healing. 

The  stroke  of  the  day  was  his  drive  on  the  seven- 
teenth hole.  The  ball  seemed  to  soar  interminably 
into  the  sunlight,  a  white  sparkle  above  the  distant 
green,  beyond  which  it  fell  among  thorns  and  long 
grass.  In  an  attempt  to  make  a  shot  comparatively 
respectable  in  length,  Rosalind  pulled  her  ball  into  a 
thick-clustered  clump  of  diminutive  oaks  on  the  left. 
Sending  the  caddies  ahead  to  find  Gary's  ball,  she 
and  Benjamin  disappeared  among  the  trees  in  search 
of  hers.  There  was  a  hot  beauty  about  the  place. 
The  dead  brown  leaves  of  the  oaks,  through  which 
the  sunlight  fell  in  great  splashes,  seemed  to  radiate 
heat  into  the  dry,  almost  dusty,  air.  High  above 
them  the  derisive  caw  of  a  hoarse-throated  crow 
floated  down  through  fathoms  of  space.  They 
stirred  among  the  underbrush,  now  side  by  side, 
now  separated  by  trees,  now  bending  beneath  low- 
sweeping  branches.  Rosalind  raised  her  hand  to 
her  head:  it  was  unbearably  close.  In  the  same  mo- 
ment strong  arms  went  round  her  from  behind  and 
she  heard  Benjamin's  voice  huskily  murmuring  in 
her  ear. 

"Rose,  let's  not  wait!  Why  not  now?  Let's 
not  wait  till  June." 

She  had  never  been  so  touched  before,  and  the 


1 82  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

first,  fierce  contact  with  the  brute  earth  which  occa- 
sionally upheaves  itself  in  the  best  of  men  momen- 
tarily stunned  her.  Then  struggling  greatly  with 
her  small  strength,  she  sought  release. 

"  Ben !  "  she  demanded  breathlessly.  "  What 
are  you  doing?  " 

"  Doing?  "  he  hurried  on,  bending  his  head  close 
to  her  tossing  hair.  "  I'm  being  happy,  Rose.  I'm 
a  man,  and  I've  suffered  terribly.  I'm  doing  the 
necessary,  the  natural  thing."  His  voice  was  big 
in  her  ear.  "  I'm  asking  you  to  marry  me  now,  not 
to  wait  till  June  to  decide." 

Still  Rosalind  struggled,  though  she  could  scarcely 
move.  The  blood  rushed  through  her  heart  till  the 
beats  seemed  to  trip  one  over  the  other;  her  brain 
was  filled  with  the  ungovernable  desire  for  freedom. 
This  embrace,  unwished  and  unreceived,  created  in 
her  only  a  feeling  of  repellence. 

"  Don't  struggle,  Rose.  I  can  hold  you  safe. 
You  are  safer  with  me  than  with  any  one  else." 

She  was  quiet  at  last;  she  fluttered  no  more  against 
her  imprisonment. 

"  I  had  thought  so,  Benjamin.     Are  you  mad?  " 

Of  a  sudden  she  was  free,  uncertain  of  her  foot- 
ing after  such  impetuous  support.  She  shivered 
slightly.  Still  close  by  her,  Benjamin  was  leaning 
against  a  tree,  one  hand  covering  his  face,  the  other 
clenched  by  his  side.  A  great  wave  of  pity  came 
over  her.  Indignant  as  she  was,  she  now  felt  no  re- 
pugnance nor  any  desire  to  punish  the  man  who  had 
offended.  Had  this  happened  before  the  sense  of 
her  own  desolation  had  possessed  her,  she  would 
have  quitted  him  in  just  anger  without  a  word;  but 
now  she  saw  in  the  plucking  of  his  hand  at  his  shirt 
the  nervous  pain  of  a  sorrow  kin  to  hers.  A  scale 


A  RUMOUR  183 

had  fallen  from  her  eyes.  The  anger  and  sympathy 
of  the  happy  are  too  often  mere  phylacteries,  mere 
emblems  and  forms.  They  matter  not!  Only 
those  who  have  also  suffered  can  understand  grief. 
Now  that  she  comprehended,  she  could  no  more  in- 
crease his  sorrow  than  she  could  pierce  him  with 
a  sword.  Be  worthy  of  a  grief  and  it  makes  you 
tender;  it  teaches  you  to  subtract  from  the  unhappi- 
ness  of  others.  Rosalind  stretched  forth  her  hand 
and  gently  touched  the  bare,  muscle-ribbed  forearm. 

"Ben—" 

His  arm  dropped  in  his  evident  amazement  at 
finding  her  still  standing  near  him. 

"  Forgive  me  .  .  ."  His  voice  choked  in  his 
throat.  "  I  was  —  a  cad  ...  I  couldn't  help  my- 
self. It  was  a  rotten  thing  to  do." 

'  You  shouldn't  have  done  it,  Ben.  It  hurts  me. 
Some  day  it  will  hurt  me  more;  it  will  kill  me  for 
you." 

She  was  thinking  of  the  mountain  again.  Here 
had  been  the  most  dangerous  eruption  of  all!  Yet 
in  her  sympathy  she  gave  him  only  this  simple  re- 
buke. 

People  who  permit  their  hearts  to  govern  their 
heads  sometimes  find  that  they  have  no  longer  heads 
to  govern.  In  giving  her  passionate  heart  to  Both- 
well,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  incidentally  gave  her 
head  to  Elizabeth.  No  doubt  she  was  aware  of  the 
capital  penalty  for  her  weakness,  as  Rosalind  was 
aware  in  this  moment  that  her  long-sought  oppor- 
tunity to  break  forever  with  Benjamin  had  knocked 
and  not  been  heard.  The  chance  to  dismiss  the  im- 
portunate suitor  had  come  and  had  not  been  accepted. 
Thus  it  is  ever  with  best  laid  plans  which  brains  de- 
vise !  The  heart  forces  them  all  to  gang  agley,  and 


1 84  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

does  so  with  conscious  pride.  If  Rosalind  later  re- 
buked herself  for  soft-heartedness,  at  the  moment 
when  repudiation  was  possible  she  rather  prized  her- 
self on  the  generous  kindness  of  her  heart.  She  had 
suffered;  another  should  not.  But  in  acting  the 
friend  to  Benjamin  in  the  little,  she  acted  the  enemy 
to  him  in  the  great.  Kind  as  it  was  not  to  break  his 
back  suddenly  at  this  moment,  it  was  cowardly  to 
renew  again  the  opportunities  for  what  she  had  felt 
convinced  was  a  hopeless  love. 

'  Then  you  will  .  .  .   forgive  me?  " 

Rosalind  was  silent.  Her  hair  was  like  so  much 
spun  gold  in  a  patch  of  sunshine:  to  the  breathless 
Gary  she  was  loveliness  incarnate. 

"  Yes,  because  I  know,  Ben,  that  you  are  sincere. 
I  have  no  heart  to  be  angry  with  you  as  I  should  be, 
but  you  have  been  wrong,  terribly  wrong.  And  you 
know  it.  So  we  are  friends  again." 

With  bowed  head  Benjamin  took  his  punishment. 
Shame  for  the  rashness  which  he  had  exhibited  could 
not  but  soon  rise  from  his  clear  nature.  Self-re- 
proach 'bears  a  more  bitter  sting  than  scorpions. 
To  the  condemnation  of  parent  or  friend  we  turn 
the  ear  of  one  who  reserves  an  ulterior  judgment, 
but  from  the  condemnation  of  oneself  there  is  no 
court  of  appeal.  Since  man  is  to  himself  sufficient, 
his  own  judgment  supplants  in  mortal  life  the  Word 
of  God.  If  a  man  have  light  within  his  own  clear 
breast,  earth  is  his  Paradise;  but  the  consciousness 
of  wrong-doing  stirring  in  his  heart  makes  the  world 
a  dungeon.  Benjamin  condemned  himself  bitterly 
and  turned  to  go,  his  brain  in  tumult.  It  seemed  as 
if  something  had  withered  while  he  held  Rosalind 
in  his  arms,  something  which  in  fancy  had  been  im- 
agined sanctified  and  which  in  actuality  was  pitifully 


A  RUMOUR  185 

mortal.  The  first  touch  and  pressure  of  her  body 
had  been  dreamt  on  tremblingly;  he  had  thought  of 
it  as  the  implicit  papist  does  of  his  first  vision  of  the 
Casa  Sante.  His  love  was  his  religion,  and  this  was 
to  be  a  culmination  of  his  worship.  But  alas  for 
human  nature !  He  had  in  his  fierce,  rough  embrace 
desecrated  his  shrine,  hurled  down  from  the  gleam- 
ing altar  monstrance,  pyx,  and  crucifix,  made  gross 
and  rude  the  most  tender  and  beautiful  of  moments. 
Self-shamed  and  self-unpitied,  he  strode  away. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

It  was  Rosalind's  voice.  Benjamin  stopped. 
Like  Adam,  banished  by  Michael  out  of  Eden,  but 
catching  at  straws  of  comfort  in  the  kind  arch- 
angel's words,  Benjamin  at  this  unexpected  question 
recovered  his  scattered  spirits. 

"  I  hardly  know,"  he  repeated  lamely.  "I  — 
hardly  know." 

"  You  aren't  going  to  leave  me  here  like  this, 
Ben?" 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  me  to  go,"  he  dumbly  re- 
plied. 

In  his  contrition  there  was  that  which  could  not  be 
withstood.  He  seemed  afraid  to  move  or  speak 
lest  he  commit  some  further  blunder  in  her  sight,  and 
remained  uncertainly,  half  faced  about.  Rosalind 
stretched  out  her  hands  to  him. 

"  Not  at  all.     I  wanted  you  to  take  me  home." 

He  hurried  to  her  and  took  her  hands  in  his. 
For  a  moment  they  stood  in  a  pool  of  sunlight  under 
the  serene  sky. 

"  But  mind!     We're  to  forget  this,  Ben!  " 

He  pressed  her  hands  reverently. 

"  I'll  mind,"  he  answered  obediently,  and  to- 
gether they  trudged  off  to  his  automobile. 


1 86  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

When  they  arrived  at  29  Commonwealth,  they 
found  Mrs.  Copley  in  the  clutches  of  the  ungram- 
matical  cousin. 

"  Don't  she  look  healthy!  "  exclaimed  that  lady, 
rapturously  holding  up  both  her  hands.  "  My  dear 
Rosalind,  those  cheeks  are  just  like  —  just  like — " 

"Roses?"  suggested  Benjamin  with  a  gallantry 
unusual  in  him. 

"  Ah,  that's  it !     Mr.  Cary  knows,  I'm  sure." 

"  How  was  your  golf?  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Copley 
coolly.  Cousin  Lucy  was  tolerated  only  so  long  as 
she  behaved  well.  Since  the  accompaniment  of  the 
airy  inflection  of  her  last  remark  with  an  unfathom- 
able glance  in  Gary's  direction  hardly  fell  within  the 
category  of  good  comportment,  Mrs.  Copley,  at 
once  the  Lachesis  and  Atropos  of  her  garrulous 
cousin's  thread  of  discourse,  cut  short  the  conversa- 
tion. 

For  the  second  time  Cary  rose  handsomely  to  the 
occasion.  "  Rosalind  won,  Mrs.  Copley,  as  usual !  " 

But  Cousin  Lucy  refused  to  be  counted  out:  a 
woman  with  a  piece  of  gossip  is  unsnubable.  She 
hitched  her  chair  toward  Rosalind  with  allufling 
friendliness. 

"  I  was  just  telling  your  mother,  Rose,  the  ter- 
rible accident  that  happened  to  your  Cousin  Arthur 
Copley.  He's  burst  an  artery  in  his  neck.  I  un- 
derstand it  happened  while  he  was  playing  whist  — 
the  excitement  and  all,  I  suppose,  was  responsible. 
I  know  my  poor  father  used  to  say  cards  were  pro- 
vokers  of  strife.  He  was  a  bit  of  a  Baptist  in  his 
way,  Mr.  Cary."  She  favoured  Benjamin  with  a 
benignant  smile.  "  Not  a  big  man  by  any  means, 
but  a  powerful  talker.  Hell-fire  was  his  favourite 
line."  She  shook  her  head  despondently.  "  He 


A  RUMOUR  187 

couldn't  abear  games,  not  because  they  were  wicked, 
but  because  they  gave  others  sinful  dependence  on 
things  not  of  the  spirit.  I'm  not  like  that.  You 
know,  I  reckon  Arthur's  thing  came  from  drink," 
she  whispered  eagerly  to  Rosalind. 

"  Cousin  Lucy!  " 

"It's  the  truth,  my  dear:     I'm  no  tale-bearer." 

At  this  moment  the  Misses  Hepplethwaite  were 
announced.  Mrs.  Copley  sighed.  A  call  from  the 
Hepplethwaites  was  at  the  best  trying,  but  with  the 
added  complication  of  the  ungrammatical  cousin, 
who  like  all  poor  relations  became  excessively  ef- 
fusive to  be  thought  genteel,  the  event  was  one  which 
she  could  regard  only  in  the  light  of  a  penance  for 
some  sin. 

"  We  have  been  driving  in  the  park,"  remarked 
the  elder  sister,  icily  seating  herself.  "  It  was  so 
beautiful  we  felt  it  as  much  a  duty  as  a  pleasure  to 
come  and  relate  to  you  our  enjoyment." 

"  Exquisite !  "  murmured  the  younger  sister. 

"  Isn't  it?  "  broke  in  Cousin  Lucy  affably.  "  You 
must  drive  out  to  Franklin  Park  some  day  and  see 
the  elephants." 

Miss  Jane  Hepplethwaite  favoured  Cousin  Lucy 
with  a  glance  of  indifferent  interest,  as  if  she  were  a 
rather  unattractive  specimen  of  an  uncultivated  age ; 
Miss  Joan  started  in  her  chair  at  her  words. 

"  How  is  your  dear  husband?  "  asked  the  former 
of  Mrs.  Copley. 

"And  your  dear  godfather?"  added  her  sister, 
turning  to  Rosalind  with  a  dazed  look. 

The  formulae  of  polite  conversation  never  aban- 
doned the  Misses  Hepplethwaite.  Despite  the 
shock  of  Cousin  Lucy  they  could  still  like  twin  auto- 
mata go  through  the  motions  of  talking.  But  even 


1 88  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

the  conventional  field  of  health  was  unsafe.  Ob- 
serving her  redoubtable  cousin  about  to  relate  the 
tragic  tale  of  Mr.  Arthur  Copley's  accident,  Mrs. 
Copley  was  again  forced  to  exercise  her  right  of 
closure. 

"  City  life  seems  to  agree  with  us  all.  Rosalind 
won't  hear  of  our  moving  to  Sherborne  just  now." 
(Rosalind  coloured  as  she  felt  Benjamin's  eyes  upon 
her,  wondering  if  he  knew  the  reason  for  her  de- 
sire.) "  But  I  do  hope  she'll  let  us  go  before  May. 
Jack  worries  over  the  garden  day  and  night." 

"  You'll  not  migrate  before  the  Pearce  wedding,  I 
presume?  "  said  Miss  Jane. 

"  You  must  stay  for  that,"  murmured  Miss  Joan. 

"  Amy  Pearce  and  Philip  Brooks !  "  laughed  Rose. 
"  Think,  Mother,  an  old  beau  of  mine !  " 

Here  was  a  chance  for  Cousin  Lucy. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  wear,  Miss  Hepple- 
thwaite?  "  Despite  the  rattle  of  Mrs.  Copley's  tea- 
cup Cousin  Lucy  held  the  floor.  "  My  white  dresses 
are  all  shrunk  by  washing;  you  wouldn't  believe  how 
they  shrink  on  me !  I've  a  green  velvet  that's 
awfully  sweet,  but  a  leetle  bit  tight,"  she  confided  in 
a  low  voice,  "  about  the  hips.  You  know  how  I 
mean  I  Girls  our  age  do  have  trouble  with  their 
hips  somehow !  " 

At  this  open  reference  to  the  feminine  anatomy 
the  Misses  Hepplethwaite  shuddered.  If  that  cele- 
brated Queen  of  Spain  had  no  legs,  for  the  purposes 
of  polite  conversation  she  was  also  hipless.  But 
Lucy  would  have  tripped  innocently  on,  had  not  the 
entrance  of  Freddy  Hoyt  cut  short  a  further  revela- 
tion. By  the  time  the  stir  of  introduction  was  over 
Cousin  Lucy  had  lost  the  thread  of  her  idea,  and 
Mrs.  Copley  was  spinning  a  new  and  safer  line. 


A  RUMOUR  189 

"  Have  you  any  news,  Jane?  Of  engagements,  I 
mean.  Your  speaking  of  the  Pearce  wedding  made 
me  think  of  it." 

"  Only  concerning  what  we  hoped  you  might  en- 
lighten us." 

"  We  hoped  you  might,"  echoed  Miss  Joan. 

"  Me?  "  Mrs.  Copley  arched  her  eyebrows  pret- 
tily. 

"  Oh,  not  Rosalind!  "  Miss  Hepplethwaite  gave 
one  the  impression  of  being  amused.  "  But 
a  friend  of  hers  —  Eric  Rolland." 

'  That  attractive  young  foreigner,"  supplemented 
her  sister. 

"  We  see  him  so  often  in  the  Square." 

"So   often.'] 

'  To  whom  is  he  supposed  to  be  engaged?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Copley.  "  It's  rather  quick  work,  isn't  it? 
He's  not  been  here  but  a  month." 

"  Oh !  He  became  acquainted  with  the  lady  on 
the  steamer  —  Patricia  Canfield." 

"  Eric  and  Patty  engaged !  Rose,  dear,  do  you 
hear  this?  " 

Rosalind  had  heard  it  all.  From  the  first  sus- 
picious word  to  the  last  whisper  of  the  rumour,  each 
syllable  had  struck  like  a  stone  against  her  heart. 
She  had  listened  with  painful  eagerness.  What  did 
these  people  know?  Until  this  moment  she  had 
heard  the  rumour  only  in  her  own  breast;  now  it 
was  on  the  lips  of  the  world. 

"  I  hear  it,  Mamma,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Not  that  handsome  garsong! "  exclaimed 
Cousin  Lucy  with  a  deliberate  display  of  high  school 
French  which  made  Mrs.  Copley  shudder. 

"/  thought,"   ventured   Freddy  Hoyt,   laying  a 


1 90  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

tremendous  emphasis  on  the  pronoun,  "  /  thought  to 
have  heard  other  news  of  him." 

'Yes?"  Rosalind  looked  into  his  laughing 
brown  eyes.  "  What?  " 

She  knew  he  meant  herself,  but  boldly  faced  him. 

"  I  said  I  wouldn't  tell !  But  then  Rose  must 
know,  Miss  Hepplethwaite."  He  turned  to  the 
elder  sister.  "  Her  intimacy  with  this  foreign  in- 
terloper has  long  been  a  thorn  in  my  side.  You  see, 
as  a  callow  freshman  I  swore  to  be  faithful  a  I'out- 
rance;  so  for  one,  I  hope  it's  true !  Thus  perish  all 
my  rivals !  " 

He  laughed  again,  but  Rosalind  had  not  the  heart 
this  time  to  look  into  his  boyish  face.  She  was 
grateful  for  Benjamin's  silence. 

"  Is  it  true,  Rosalind  dear?  "  asked  Miss  Jane 
ingratiatingly. 

'  We  hate  to  press  you,"  pressed  the  younger 
sister. 

"  I  don't  know.     They  haven't  told  me." 

Rosalind  spoke  coldly,  as  who  should  say  that  the 
business  was  not  hers  either  for  interest  or  participa- 
tion. But  just  under  the  rim  of  her  control  surged 
an  intemperate  desire  to  shake  these  two  prim  icicles 
till  by  the  very  friction  of  their  motion  they  dis- 
solved. 

'  They'd  make  a  lovely  couple,"  ventured  the  un- 
grammatical  cousin,  "  so  dark,  both  of  'em  1  Do 
you  suppose  there  is  anything  in  the  attraction  of 
like  to  like?  I  met  an  albino  lady  once.  She  was 
never  married,  perhaps  because  she  couldn't  find  an 
albino  man.  Funny  thing;  their  eyes  are  reddish, 
like  rabbits.  Creepy,  I  call  it." 

Freddy  Hoyt  choked  into  his  tea-cup,  and  even 


A  RUMOUR  191 

Benjamin's  stern  lips  had  a  humorous  expression 
about  them. 

"  I  have  heard  Mr.  Rolland  was  completely  fasci- 
nated by  her  on  the  boat,"  ventured  Miss  Hepple- 
thwaite. 

"  So  romantic!  " 

"  I  can't  think  who  told  you,"  said  Rosalind,  en- 
deavouring to  veil  under  an  ill-maintained  indif- 
ference her  passionate  eagerness  to  ascertain  the 
source  of  the  information. 

"I  really  forget!" 

"  Just  a  rumour."     Miss  Jane  smiled  sweetly. 

'  We  saw  them  at  the  Copley  Plaza  just  now  on 
our  way  here." 

"  Going  to  tea,  we  supposed." 

"  Then  there  may  be  something  in  it."  Mrs. 
Copley  shook  her  lovely  head  doubtfully.  "  I  had 
not  known  they  were  acquainted;  Rose  didn't  tell 
me." 

Rosalind  had  arisen  and  moved  aimlessly  to  the 
shadows  by  the  windows.  As  he  followed  her,  Ben- 
jamin could  not  see  her  face,  but  from  the  pathetic 
slope  of  her  shoulders  he  gathered  something  of  her 
unhappiness.  It  was  a  hard  moment  for  him. 
How  might  he  offer  sympathy  on  this  subject,  the 
very  downfall  of  his  rival?  Yet  there  is  a  sorrow 
which  supersedes  all  personal  emotion;  it  is  the  pain 
of  those  beloved.  Her  wounds  were  more  precious 
than  his  own.  With  some  divine  intuition  guiding 
his  heavy  heart,  he  understood  how  best  he  might 
help  her. 

"  Good-bye,  Rosalind,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"  You  have  been  kind  to  me  to-day." 

"  Thank  you,  Ben." 


192  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

When  he  was  gone,  Rosalind  went  slowly  up  the 
stairs  to  her  room.  It  seemed  as  if  with  each  step 
there  was  an  incalculable  weight  to  be  lifted,  as  if 
a  mighty,  vague  depression  flowed  through  her  body, 
numbing  its  muscles  and  interdicting  their  function. 
The  pipe  of  rumour,  "  blown  by  surmises,  jealousies, 
conjectures,"  plays  a  tune  easily  accredited  by  two 
ears,  the  one  most  eager  for  its  music,  the  other  most 
dreading  its  note.  For  Rosalind  this  piece  of  news 
had  blotted  out  the  sun,  and  she  could  cry  with 
blind  Samson,  "  O  dark,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze 
of  noon!  "  Rumour  is  painted  with  many  tongues; 
the  whisper  of  each  had  found  an  ear  in  her  sad- 
dened heart. 

She  went  to  her  desk  and  took  the  little  calendar 
in  her  hand.  June  ist:  ANSWER  BEN!  How 
should  she  answer  him  with  Eric  become  a  vital  part 
of  her  daily  happiness?  Oh!  Had  these  last  days 
been  a  dream?  Should  she  awake  soon,  unable  to 
finish  this  song  so  beautifully  begun  ? 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WHICH    CULMINATES   IN   A   SECOND   LETTER 
TO    CAMILLA 

THERE  are  a  thousand  homes  in  Boston,  dwelt 
in  by  the  nicest  people  imaginable,  which  are 
painfully  alike.  Alike  in  their  calm  pro- 
priety; alike  in  their  Victorian  homeliness;  alike  in 
their  chastening  influence  upon  the  young.  The  chil- 
dren grow  up  to  their  homes;  nothing  grows  down 
to  them.  Even  if  they  do  not  walk  about  the  streets 
reading  Emerson,  they  alone  are  the  losers  by  such 
abstention,  for  the  world  at  large  is  convinced  that 
they  do.  At  a  tender  age  the  boys  are  whisked 
off  to  boarding-school,  where  they  are  cast  into 
an  excellent  mould  and  turned  out  six  or  seven  years 
later  in  varying  degrees  of  completion.  The  girls 
remain  at  home,  sometimes  beautiful,  often  incon- 
sequential, and  usually  idle  ornaments. 

After  a  year  of  this  ornamental  stage  —  though 
even  during  the  winter  of  her  debut  she  had  discov- 
ered Dostoievzki  and  Brieux  to  parental  alarm  — 
Rosalind  had  decided  to  be  useful.  It  shocked  her 
mother;  it  hurt  her  father;  it  displeased  her  god- 
father. Among  the  lists  of  subscribers  to  charity 
the  name  of  Copley  had  led  all  the  rest;  but  to 
work,  actually  to  work,  in  Brimmer  House !  Col- 
lectively and  individually  the  family  shook  its  head. 
But  Rosalind's  determination  won  the  day,  and 
within  a  year  —  lo  and  behold!  Mrs.  Copley  had 

193 


i94  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

entertained  a  carefully  selected  group  of  Rosalind's 
little  girls  at  the  house;  Mr.  Copley  was  telling 
stories  about  her  at  the  Sarcophagus  Club ;  and  even 
her  godfather  acknowledged  to  be  pleased  with  her 
success. 

People  are  hungry  for  life  in  proportion  to  the 
courage  which  they  bring  into  it,  and  Rosalind  was 
brave.  She  had  not  wanted  to  live  as  does  the  aver- 
age, the  conventional  girl.  Perhaps  she  did  not 
court  the  storm  and  stress  of  existence;  yet  at  the 
same  time  she  was  unafraid  before  it,  and  could  re- 
gard its  possible  incursion  upon  her  virginal  serenity 
with  the  pleasurable  thrill  of  a  novice  in  oriental 
travel  who  hears  by  night  the  far-off  shriek  of  the 
monsoon  on  Arafura  Sea.  Life  is  very  sweet;  no 
wonder  that  it  be  human  nature  to  desire  the  utmost 
of  it.  In  Eric  she  had  found  what  she  believed 
to  be  the  reason  of  her  existence,  and  had  been 
mightily  stirred.  What  she  had  endeavoured  to  find 
in  Benjamin,  affining  qualities  in  Eric  had  showered 
upon  her.  Even  in  so  short  a  time  he  had  taught  her 
to  see  the  world  in  a  grain  of  sand,  to  find  eternity 
in  a  second.  Life  had  not  been  lived  entirely  on 
the  hilltops,  it  is  true:  to  scale  the  loftiest  moun- 
tain, the  lowest  valley  must  be  tread.  But  with  a 
cloud  by  day  and  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night  the  path 
mattered  not:  the  goal  was  all. 

It  was  different  now.  Rosalind  sat  at  her  desk 
in  Brimmer  House,  leaning  back  in  the  chair  and 
biting  her  pen-holder,  her  mind  filled  with  the  ru- 
mour heard  yesterday  from  the  Misses  Hepple- 
thwaite.  A  feeling  came  over  her  that  both  ame- 
thyst mountain  and  purple  valley  had  vanished  away, 
that  nothing  now  was  left  but  the  endless,  humdrum 
flatlands  of  life.  She  set  herself  to  write. 


A  SECOND  LETTER  TO  CAMILLA     195 

".  .  .  .  Antonio  is  worse  than  when  he  first  came 
to  the  class-room,  and  I  really  begin  to  think  his  is 
a  case  for  the  House  of  Correction  .  .  ." 

The  pen  trailed  off  the  page  in  an  inky  hen-track. 
Little  words  that  Eric  had  said  tumbled  through 
her  brain,  scraps  of  sentences,  music  that  tinkled 
in  a  past  harmony,  a  glint  of  sunlight  on  his  dark 
hair.  Was  it  all  to  go,  this  beautiful  universe? 
"  A  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  hap- 
pier things."  She  thought  of  all  those  trivialities, 
so  incomprehensibly  dear,  which  had  made  her  life 
rich  of  late;  she  thought  how  warm  and  precious 
past  hours  had  been;  and  her  tears,  like  those  of  the 
Recording  Angel  upon  Uncle  Toby's  great  oath, 
dropped  one  by  one  upon  the  page,  blotting  the  sins 
of  Antonio  from  all  legibility.  There  were  not 
many  tears,  but  the  few  were  bitter,  and  left  her  as 
miserable  as  before  they  had  been  shed.  Incapable 
of  work  she  jumped  up,  put  on  her  hat,  and  moved 
irresolutely  to  the  door.  A  magnetism  stronger 
than  her  pride  was  drawing  her  towards  the  Square. 
As  she  climbed  up  the  hill  she  whispered  that  she 
was  going  to  see  her  godfather  and  no  one  else,  but 
she  was  painfully  conscious  of  falseness  to  herself 
in  the  thought. 

Despite  a  few  pale  streaks  of  sunlight  which  still 
filtered  slowly  into  the  Square  the  place  was  gloomy 
and  chill,  with  an  angry  wind  whistling  in  the  chim- 
ney-tops and  rattling  a  loosened  shutter  with  im- 
perious rage.  Aristides  and  Columbus,  cold  little 
statues,  looked  across  the  enclosure  at  each  other 
in  dejected  misery;  up  above,  the  wind  shredded  the 
limbs  of  the  ragged  old  elms.  Rosalind  shivered. 
Yesterday  morning  it  had  been  warm  enough  to  sit 
in  the  enclosure  with  Eric;  to-day  —  she  doubted  if 


196  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

she  might  now  sit  anywhere  with  him !  And  yet  her 
heart  filled  with  but  one  desire :  to  know  what  he 
was  about,  to  see  him,  to  hear  his  voice,  to  observe 
close  by  his  hand,  though  unobserved.  Acting  on 
some  impulse,  she  stepped  across  the  road  and, 
pressed  close  to  the  old  iron  fence,  looked  in  at  the 
spot  where  together  they  had  been  the  morning  be- 
fore. There  was  so  much  loveliness  in  the  remem- 
brance that  she  forgot  to  turn  away.  On  the  dark- 
ened grass  she  could  see  Eric's  slender  figure  flung 
back  with  a  laugh;  the  sun  was  still  dazzling  on  his 
face ;  the  nearness  of  his  body  still  stirred  her  blood. 
Like  an  enchanted  pilgrim,  she  stood  gazing  in 
through  the  bars  as  if  a  Garden  of  Armida  lay  be- 
yond and  not  a  dark,  shy  old  square. 

"  I  have  been  watching  you  from  the  window, 
Rose.  Have  you  lost  something?  " 

With  electric  surprise  Eric's  voice  aroused  her 
from  her  reverie.  She  could  not  look  at  him,  so 
overwhelmingly  she  felt  his  presence. 

"  Yes,  Eric.  I  have  lost  something,"  she  truth- 
fully answered  in  a  voice  so  low  that  the  wind  caught 
and  swept  it  away  from  her  lips. 

"What?" 

There  was  nothing  to  say,  nothing  that  she  could 
reply  which  would  be  truth. 

"  My  —  my  purse !  It  must  have  dropped  yes- 
terday morning,  as  we  sat  here.  You  remember?  " 

"Let  me  look!" 

He  was  over  the  fence  in  a  moment.  Rosalind 
watched  his  slim  figure  vault  through  the  half  light 
in  a  confusion  of  admiration,  self-reproach,  and  an- 
ger. 

"  Don't    trouble,    Eric !  "     She    blushed    as    he 


A  SECOND  LETTER  TO  CAMILLA     197 

groped  about  the  grass.  "  It's  only  a  trifle  after 
all." 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  be  here  anyway,"  he  called. 
Then  he  came  close  to  the  fence  on  his  side. 
"Where  have  you  been?  I  have  waited  all  the 
morning  about  the  house." 

Rosalind's  heart  leaped  up  as  he  spoke,  and  she 
felt  the  skin  upon  her  scalp  tighten  and  tingle. 

"Have  you  —  really?"  she  asked  with  suddenly 
bright  eyes. 

"  Of  course.     Did  you  forget?  " 

Something,  she  knew  not  what,  made  her  think  of 
Patricia  and  she  bit  her  lip,  angry  at  his  deceit. 

"  Yes  —  that  is,  no.  I've  spent  most  of  the  day 
at  Brimmer  House."  Her  voice  was  coldly  polite. 
"  There's  much  work  for  me." 

"  I  wish  I  could  help.     Couldn't  I  ?  " 

Rosalind  looked  sharply  at  him.  Another  day 
the  solicitude  in  his  voice  would  have  warmed  her 
heart;  now  she  was  tempted  in  her  anger  to  be  cyni- 
cal. He  help  her?  Was  this  a  game  of  buff  he 
was  playing  and  was  she  the  blindman?  Through 
the  bars  of  the  old  fence  she  could  see  the  breeze 
ruffling  his  curly  hair  and  flooding  his  cheeks  with 
colour;  in  his  eyes  there  was  the  clear  coolness  of 
high  winds  on  high  hills. 

"  You  allowed  Cary  to  help  you.  You  called  him 
your  financial  aide.  Why  not  ask  me?  " 

"  I  will  ask  you,  Eric."  She  met  his  eyes  seri- 
ously. 

"  Thank  you."  He  was  very  close  now;  the  same 
breath  of  wind  that  played  about  his  head  stirred  also 
about  her  before  it  flung  itself  to  Heaven.  "  You 
are  not  angry  with  me,  Rosalind?  Tell  me!  " 


i98  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  Angry?  "  She  grasped  tightly  the  bars  of  the 
old  fence,  overwhelmed  with  a  feeling  that  she  had 
somehow  betrayed  her  jealousy,  and  said  the  easiest 
thing,  the  first  thing  that  came  into  her  mind. 
"  What  do  you  mean,  Eric?  " 

"  Lately  it  has  seemed  that  I  displeased  you.  I 
have  wondered  why  to  myself.  Perhaps  I  have 
been  wrong  in  my  conclusions.  ...  I  thought  you 
liked  me."  He  paused.  Rosalind,  tremulous  and 
with  bent  head,  could  say  nothing.  "  You  seemed 
to  take  a  fancy  to  me  at  first.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
kindness :  every  one  has  been  so  kind.  I  hope  I  have 
not  offended  you?  How  have  I?  Rose?"  Still 
no  reply.  The  joy  of  the  moment  stifled  her  and 
she  felt  her  jealous  conviction,  built  upon  rumour, 
like  an  evil  spirit  before  the  exorcising  charm  fade 
at  his  words.  "  I  do  so  want  all  people  to  like 
me.  My  mother  was  sweet  to  every  one,  simply  be- 
cause she  said  it  was  easier  to  be  pleasant  than  dis- 
agreeable. I  have  inherited  the  manner  from  her, 
and  it  makes  one  seem  false,  I  suppose.  If  I  see 
a  person,  I  desire  that  person  to  like  me.  And  I 
try  to  make  every  one  want  me,  though  I  don't  care 
perhaps  at  all  for  them.  It's  a  selfish  thing,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Did  you  try  with  me,  Eric?  "  asked  Rosalind 
timorously. 

"  I  hardly  had  an  opportunity.  I  —  that  sounds 
conceited  enough,  doesn't  it?  I  meant  we  seemed 
to  like  each  other  so  well  that  endeavour  wasn't 
necessary." 

"  Not  at  all  necessary." 

It  was  dark  now.  Rosalind  smiled  to  herself. 
From  the  moment  when  first  she  had  discovered  him 


A  SECOND  LETTER  TO  CAMILLA     199 

at  the  piano  to  the  present  instant,  love  had  seemed 
to  her  inevitable. 

"  If  you  are  not  angry,  then  I  am  most  pleased. 
It  means  a  great  deal  to  me.  .  .  .  And  now  before 
we  both  get  pneumonia  in  this  tearing  wind,  let's  go 
in  to  godfather!  " 

Eric  had  mounted  the  fence  and  stood  a  moment 
above  her  silhouetted  against  the  angry  sky  with  arms 
outstretched.  So  might  Mercury  have  poised  in  flight 
upon  a  heaven-kissing  hill.  But  the  footing  was  too 
precarious  and  the  rushing  wind  unbalanced  him;  he 
twisted,  caught  at  the  air,  and  fell  to  the  street  with  a 
cry.  At  the  misstep  Rosalind  had  stretched  out  her 
arms  to  steady  his  position,  and  as  he  fell  his  foot 
struck  her,  spinning  her  back  against  the  fence. 

"Eric!     Are  you  hurt?" 

For  a  moment  she  stared  sickly  at  the  figure  on 
the  cobblestones,  her  heart  cold  in  her  breast. 

"Eric!  Eric!  What  has  happened?  Are  you 
hurt,  dear  Eric?  Answer  me!  " 

Dropping  to  her  knees  beside  him,  she  caught  his 
hand  as  it  moved  about  his  head.  He  lay  upon  his 
side,  and  she  endeavoured  to  support  his  shoulders 
and  raise  him  from  the  cold  ground.  His  lids  were 
heavy  as  if  with  sleep. 

"  I  must  —  have  stumbled,"  he  murmured  in  a 
faint,  dazed  voice.  "  It's  my  head;  it  hit  the  iron 
fence.  I'll  be  all  right  now.  Nothing  broken. 
I'll  be  all  right." 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  cried  with  a  break  in  her 
voice,  as  with  her  support  he  arose  unsteadily.  "  It 
must  hurt  dreadfully,  Eric." 

"  I'm  dizzy."  He  tottered  on  his  feet.  "  Give 
me  your  arm,  Rose.  Stupid  of  me  —  fall." 


200  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

She  slipped  her  arm  through  his,  looking  up  in 
the  pale,  drawn  face.  At  the  first  step  he  reeled, 
like  to  fall  again  from  his  faintness,  and  with  quick 
pity  and  strength  she  put  her  arms  about  him.  For 
a  moment  they  stood  thus  in  the  stormy  twilight, 
his  weight  thrown  heavily  upon  her,  his  face  de- 
clining with  the  weariness  of  pain  toward  her  face; 
then,  with  an  effort,  he  took  another  step,  halting 
and  weak,  another  and  another,  and  so  on  up  the 
stairs  and  into  the  house.  The  weight  was  precious 
in  Rosalind's  arms.  Perhaps  it  was  only  a  step 
across  the  street  to  the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room: 
such  steps  are  rare,  invaluable  measures,  quite  un- 
known to  linear  scales.  There  was  an  eternal  mag- 
nitude about  that  minute  which  defied  all  temporal 
calculation.  To  help  in  a  moment  of  pain,  to  feel 
a  dazed  head  heavy  upon  the  shoulder,  to  clasp  about 
the  waist,  to  touch  with  light  fingers  the  temples  — 
in  these  small  services  is  the  lover's  great  reward  of 
love. 

The  slightest  accident  to  one  beloved  is  infinitely 
magnified.  Charity  we  measure  by  our  incomes,  but 
sympathy  by  our  hearts.  Had  Eric  been  Horatius, 
fresh  from  washing  his  wounds  in  hurrying  Tiber, 
he  could  not  have  received  a  more  lavish  yet  sin- 
cere bestowal  of  fuss  and  affection.  He  reclined 
upon  a  sofa,  cushioned,  cologned,  and  comforted, 
a  moral  Don  Juan  revived  and  restored  by  a  west- 
ern Haidee.  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  would  have 
called  a  doctor,  but  Eric  balked  at  that.  A  man 
likes  to  be  made  much  of  if  he  has  only  pricked  his 
thumb,  but  even  though  he  be  dying  he  will  not 
summon  a  doctor.  Love  is  the  best  physician;  it 
is  the  one  infallible  cure-all  of  immedicable  woes. 
Though  Asclepios  brought  Hippolytus  back  to  life, 


he  could  not  have  prescribed  comfort  for  a  bump  on 
the  head;  but  Rosalind's  cool  fingers  at  Eric's  temples 
were  like  ministers  of  peace  in  a  hot  and  aching 
world.  At  dinner  Eric  was  the  focus  of  attention. 
Sitting  beside  him,  Rosalind  could  not  eat;  one  never 
eats  in  the  presence  of  a  person  much  loved  or  much 
respected.  Between  the  excitement  of  the  heart  and 
the  stimulation  of  the  nervous  system  the  conductive 
usefulness  of  the  alimentary  canal  is  reduced  to  a 
minimum  which  holds  only  ambrosia  palatable. 
Who  could  be  so  oblivious  as  to  eat  with  a  garden  of 
roses  blooming  in  the  heart? 

After  Eric  had  been  put  unwillingly  to  bed,  Rosa- 
lind sat  down  at  the  desk  in  the  small  library  up- 
stairs, her  eyes  still  brilliant  with  happy  excitement. 
She  felt  a  desire  to  laugh  and  a  desire  to  cry,  and  in 
her  mood  of  exaltation  took  up  a  pen  to  write  to  her 
friend,  Camilla.  The  deathless  joy  of  friends  is 
this:  wherever  they  may  be,  whatever  their  estate, 
they  represent  a  sympathetic  and  intimate  audience 
before  which  the  cloak  and  subleties  of  life  may  be 
stripped  off  and  the  confidence  of  strong  love  re- 
main. 

April  22d. 
Dearest  Camilla: 

As  a  hors  d'ceuvre  Uncle  Sing-Sing  sends  you  his  love. 
I  send  you  mine,  dear  Cam,  too,  and  I  wish  with  all  my 
heart  you  were  here  this  minute.  What  a  talk  we  could 
have!  But  you  aren't,  so  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  (like 
the  country  lover)  hoping  you  are  still  the  same.  I'm  not. 
I'm  involved  in  a  drayma. 

The  curtain  goes  up,  disclosing  to  view  a  beautiful,  young, 
society  girl,  right  centre,  in  tears.  (That's  me.)  Centre 
stage,  handsome  foreigner  with  ice-green  eyes  and  air  of 
divine  insouciance.  (That's  HIM,  Cammy!)  Left  cen- 
tre, dark  woman  of  vampire  beauty,  dangerous  temperament, 


202  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

and  Gallic  moral  code.  (That  is  —  you've  guessed  it, 
Cam!  Patricia!) 

Everything  you  have  ever  said  about  P.  C.,  I  now  en- 
dorse, Camilla.  Anything  you  ever  can  say  will  "  when 
found,  be  made  note  on."  Is  this  music  to  you?  It's  ten 
thousand  trumpets  out  of  tune  to  me,  dearest.  What 
makes  it  all  the  worse  is  this:  /  warped  those  trumpets.  / 
brought  Patricia  and  Eric  into  contact,  moi! 

You  know,  my  sweet  Cammy,  how  said  Patricia  can  act! 
Well,  she  tried  out  all  of  those  and  a  cargo  of  new  allure- 
ments on  Eric,  and  within  Jack  Robinson  my  fairy  prince 
was  a  god  in  chains.  Since  that  moment  the  sun  has  risen 
in  the  west,  my  ears  have  burned,  and  I  have  dreamed  of 
walking  under  ladders.  (Also  I  have  been  attacked  on  the 
golf  links  by  a  tall,  handsome  friend  of  yours.  You  re- 
member what  Samson  did  to  the  lion?  —  But  I'm  not  going 
to  tell  you  that  secret.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  Samson.) 

But  dearest  Cammy,  you  mustn't  be  jealous  when  I  tell 
you  what  glorious  times  Eric  and  I  have  had  together! 
Oh!  to  walk  on  air  and  contemplate  the  sun!  And  I  have 
done  it.  Ah!  ces  beaux  jours  de  bonheur  indicible!  I  have 
felt  a  joy  that  has  passed  all  my  belief,  Camilla.  And 
now?  I  don't  know  anything,  m'amie!  I  don't  know 
whether  he  likes  me  or  not.  It's  torturing  to  live  this  way. 
To-night  I'm  almost  very  sure  I'm  grand'  chose  in  his  life; 
to-morrow  —  qui  salt?  As  for  jealousy !  My  dear  Camilla, 
I'm  positively  ochre;  Leontes  out-Leontesed !  But  how  can 
I  help  it?  Two  suns  cannot  revolve  in  the  same  sphere: 
Patricia  Canfield  and  I  cannot  both  be  Venus!  As  for  my 
pride,  Cammy  dear,  I've  not  two  penny's  worth  left. 

Oh,  Camilla,  you  understand  me,  I  know.  Other  friends 
have  not  been  like  us.  Then  lend  me  now  your  love.  I 
have  yearned  for  Eric,  put  him  before  everything  in  the 
world.  To  me  he  has  not  been  what  he  is,  what  you 
might  think  him,  but  something  inhumanly  beautiful.  I 
have  set  him  on  a  pedestal  of  crystal ;  I  have  put  him  in  my 
prayers  —  all  in  so  short  a  time !  You  think  it  is  a  pass- 
ing craze  perhaps?  No,  Cammy!  It  is  very  deep  in  my 


A  SECOND  LETTER  TO  CAMILLA     203 

soul.  There  are  some  moments  when  you  can  feel  a  reve- 
lation: with  Eric  such  a  moment  has  come  to  me.  I  could 
strike  Heaven  dumb  with  hyperbole,  so  changed  am  I, 
but  —  tears,  idle  tears!  Ca  ne  vaut  rien! 

When  you  come  back  you'll  be  dearer  to  me  than  ever  — 
and  be  in  at  the  death! 

Patience  on   a  monument, 

Your  adoring  ROSE. 

P.  S.  Allegra  Tompkins'  new  free  verse  poems  are  just 
out.  You'll  be  interested  in  this  parody  Eric  and  I  —  in 
one  of  our  HAPPY  MOMENTS  — have  concocted. 
Mamma  says  it's  much  more  sense  than  the  original.  Eric 
calls  it 

"  A  Temperamental  Temperance  Tour  de  Force." 

Of  late  of  thy  wine  of  love 

Much  have  I  drunk. 

Gushing  and  ebbing  in  my  red  heart, 

Tide   upon   tide  has   clutched   and   passioned 

For  something  there. 

Now  am  I  full  of  broken  bottles, 
Chipped,  ruddy  glass,  amber  beer  bottles, 
Splinters  that  tear  and  scream. 
Why,  having  drunk  up  all  the  wine, 
Did  I  drink,  too,  the  bottles? 
My  parched  soul,  unslaked, 
Shrieked  for  that  more  which  you  had  not; 
So  of  your  love  I  swallowed  the  shell, 
Hideously  indigestible  .  .  . 

I  was  thirsty,  so  thirsty! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MISFORTUNES   NEVER   COME    SINGLY 

BETWEEN  Eric's  accident  and  the  wedding  of 
Amy  Pearce  to  Philip  Brooks  there  lay  in 
Rosalind's  life  an  interregnum.  The  days 
filed  by  in  a  dull  succession,  strangely  devoid  of  the 
initial  glamour  of  being  passionately  in  love.  It 
was  as  if  before  the  full  sense  of  her  deeper  emotion 
could  be  appreciated  an  adjustment  of  spiritual 
values  must  be  made.  Rosalind  was  puzzled,  and 
came  to  regard  herself  with  mistrust.  At  times  she 
felt  almost  repugnance  for  her  love.  In  moments 
of  bright  sunshine  and  gay  laughter  she  entertained 
those  torturing,  mortal  misgivings  and  half-doubts  as 
to  the  possibility  of  eternal  devotion.  So  new  and 
swift  in  its  conquest,  could  this  passion  endure  the 
infinite  weaving  of  years?  To  one  assured  of  re- 
ciprocal love  the  future  is  a  land  of  jasper  and  of 
gold,  glowing  with  celestial  roses;  but  Rosalind  en- 
joyed no  surety  of  affection,  and  so  with  unsealed 
sight  could  see  in  all  its  grey  reality  the  cold,  hard 
road  that  stretches  up  to  the  gleaming  hill  where 
man  and  Maker  meet.  Yet  far  more  often  a  sense 
of  all  that  which  was  now  hers  swept  over  her  in  a 
torrent  of  reproach  that  such  doubts  could  find  enter- 
tainment in  her  breast.  When  she  awoke  in  the 
vast  silence  of  the  night  to  find  a  square  of  moon- 
light nicely  painted  on  the  floor,  the  firm  belief  in 
Eric  as  the  quintessential  of  her  life  possessed  her, 

204 


MISFORTUNES  205 

tossing  and  turning  its  mortal  casing  in  an  ecstasy  of 
loneliness.  Moved  by  this  sudden  influx  of  feeling, 
she  would  steal  to  the  window  to  watch  the  stars 
like  armies  of  eyes  march  silently  across  the  heavens, 
and  find  in  each  twinkling  radiancy  a  cold  distance 
that  struck  into  her  heart.  In  the  daytime,  too, 
the  sense  of  being  alone  came  over  her.  In  little 
country  groves  the  wind  sang  unearthly  melodies, 
faint  echoings  of  something  which  had  never  been; 
in  city  streets  she  found  associations  rich  with  past 
remembrances;  and  the  dulness  of  mundane  associa- 
tions contrasted  vividly  with  the  omnipresent  spirit 
of  her  love. 

One  afternoon  she  unexpectedly  came  across  Pa- 
tricia Canfield,  standing  on  the  steps  of  Violet  Lee's 
house.  For  a  moment  Rosalind  was  embarrassed, 
but  her  friend  with  the  characteristic  flutter  and 
bustle  of  all  beautiful  women  who  live  life  as  if  it 
were  a  foot-race,  flew  down  the  steps  to  embrace 
her. 

"Hullo,  Rosey-ro!"  Patricia  always  kissed  on 
the  lips  for  sincerity's  sake.  "  Where  are  you  go- 
ing, dear  ?  Do  come  in  and  see  Vi's  olive-branch !  " 

Rosalind  paused  uncertainly. 

"  I  suppose  I  —  all  right,  Pat." 

"  I'm  crazy  to  see  it.  I  adore  babies  —  they're 
so  puddeny.  Vi  is  perfectly  mad  over  hers;  sits  it 
up  on  the  bed  beside  her  and  cries,  '  Now  when  you 
grow  up,  you  and  I  are  going  to  be  bess,  'ittle,  quiet 
fre'n's.'  Let  me  see,"  mused  Patricia  maliciously. 
"  Do  you  remember  said  Violet  in  the  ante-baby 
days?  They  had  to  put  the  lights  out  to  get  her 
home !  Now  she's  that  demure  and  maternal  I  feel 
actually  rebuked  in  her  sight !  " 

They  slipped  into  the  house. 


206  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  It  must  be  a  relief  for  Hugh." 

"  Yes.  I  suppose  you  think  marriage  would  be 
good  for  me,  too,  Ro-ro?"  Rosalind  coloured  ab- 
ruptly. "  I've  thought  so  lately.  A  couple  of 
babies  might  make  me  into  a  Penelope  or  a  Lucre- 
tia." 

;'  What's  the  child's  name?" 

"  That  I'm  thinking  of  kidnapping,  dear?  "  Pa- 
tricia wilfully  misunderstood  the  question  with  facile 
stupidity.  "  Never  mind  —  but  you  know  him." 

"Really?" 

Rosalind  was  glad  when  they  reached  Violet's 
boudoir;  fencing  with  Patricia  about  Eric  was  a 
particularly  disagreeable  occupation. 

"  Hullo,  Vi.  I've  brought  Rosey  with  me. 
Where  is  the  blessing?  " 

Rosalind  kissed  the  mother  and  knelt  down  be- 
side the  baby. 

"  May  I  take  it  up,  Violet?  What  a  splendid 
child!" 

Mrs.  Lee,  nodding  assent,  Rosalind  raised  the 
baby  to  her  breast  with  a  skill  taught  by  long  expe- 
rience at  Brimmer  House.  The  little  bundle  of 
blankets  was  quiet  in  her  arms. 

"  Look,  Violet !  She's  smiling  at  me."  Rosalind 
lifted  to  her  lips  one  of  the  little  hands,  its  rosy 
fingers  crisping  in  the  first  exercise  of  strength. 

'  Want  to  hold  it,  Patricia?  " 

Miss  Canfield  was  sitting  by  the  window,  where 
she  could  look  out  upon  the  street. 

"  Heavens,  no !  "  she  replied  with  marked  declen- 
sion of  interest  in  infantile  welfare.  "  I  might  drop 
it.  Don't  be  offended,  Vi!  This  is  a  Paris  dress 
anyway,  and  if  you  don't  know  just  how  to  handle  the 
little  things,  they're  liable  to  forget  themselves. 


MISFORTUNES  207 

Look!  There's  Hatty  Mason:  shall  we  have  a 
bridge?  I'm  dying  for  cards." 

Rosalind  excused  herself  and,  putting  down  the 
baby,  bid  Mrs.  Lee  good-bye. 

"  I  only  just  dropped  in,  Violet." 

"  Ta-ta,  Rosey,"  called  Patricia  from  the  window. 
"  Is  he  going  to  the  wedding  to-morrow?  " 

"Who?"  asked  Rosalind,  firmly  meeting  her 
friend's  half-mocking,  half-inquisitive  stare. 

"  Eric,  of  course !  Did  you  think  I  meant  the 
baby?" 

Rosalind  bit  her  lip. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  replied  truthfully.  Eric  had 
gone  into  the  country  on  a  sketching  trip  and  had  not 
defined  the  day  of  his  return. 

"  Don't  fence,  Rose,"  laughed  Mrs.  Lee  from  her 
reclining  chair.  "  You're  with  friends !  " 

Rosalind  was  standing  at  the  door. 

"  I  really  don't  know,  Patricia.  He  didn't  tell 
me.  Good-bye,  Violet." 

As  she  ran  down  the  stairs,  her  face  burned  to 
hear  Patricia's  laugh  floating  after  her.  It  is  not 
pleasant  to  know  that  your  friends  are  dissecting  you 
with  an  amused  smile  behind  your  back.  Sharper 
than  all  the  blades  of  Damascus  is  the  tongue  which 
wags  malice  against  an  old  friend. 

On  the  next  morning  her  answer  to  Patricia  would 
have  been  different,  for  she  received  a  telegram  from 
Eric  declaring  his  intention  to  return  at  noon  and 
go  to  the  wedding.  With  this  in  her  thoughts  Rosa- 
lind sat  in  Trinity  Church,  staring  about  on  all  sides. 
The  dingy  interior  was  impregnated  with  the  per- 
fume of  the  roses  which  decorated  the  altar  and 
wreathed  about  little  columns  guarding  the  length  of 
the  aisle.  But  if  Eric  was  there,  he  was  not  to  be 


208  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

seen  in  the  crowd  of  fine  dresses  and  dark  cutaways 
which  filled  the  pews.  Rosalind  leaned  back  in  dis- 
appointment. What  a  circus  our  world  of  to-day 
makes  of  a  wedding!  What  an  opportunity  it  af- 
fords garrulous  women  to  sate  that  curiosity  of  theirs 
which  damned  mother  Eve !  What  a  perfect  carni- 
val of  barbaric  impudence  is  all  this  frilling  and  fur- 
belowing  and  staring  at  two  inoffensive  human  be- 
ings —  strangers,  more  often  than  not  —  who  are 
for  the  moment  standing  close  by  God!  Clack- 
clack-clack  go  the  ladies'  tongues,  intruding  their 
scandal-mongering  upon  the  magnificent  thunder  and 
drone  of  the  organ.  The  men  in  the  audience  — 
what  else,  indeed  ?  —  yawn  and  cough ;  the  minister 
and  the  best  man  behind  the  altar  settle  the  account 
—  in  gold  pieces  and  not  human  teeth  or  bright 
stones,  for  this  is  not  Madagascar,  though  it  appear 
like  it  —  and  the  trembling  protagonists  march  away 
from  the  presence  of  God,  grateful  that  what  should 
be  most  divine  in  life  is  quickly  over.  Marriages 
are  certainly  not  made  on  earth !  Were  it  not  better 
done  to  stand  in  a  rain  of  apple  blossoms  from  an 
age-old  branch,  sole  separation  from  the  Lord's  high 
Heaven,  and  speak  the  simple  words  before  a  simple 
man  than  endure  all  the  tinsel  and  trumpeting  of  a 
marriage  in  a  crowded  church? 

Rosalind  was  glad  when  the  ceremony  was  over; 
marriage  was  too  close  to  her  own  heart  to  be  a 
visual  pleasure.  Still  there  was  no  sign  of  Eric. 
Despite  ceaseless  burrowing  in  the  tight-packed  press 
at  the  reception,  her  efforts  were  unrewarded.  With 
a  sense  of  disappointment  she  mounted  the  stairs  to 
retake  her  wrap,  but  passed  absent-mindedly  from 
the  hall  into  a  chamber  opposite  the  improvised  coat- 
room.  It  was  a  cosy  little  place,  overlooking  the 


MISFORTUNES  209 

Basin,  a  place  on  the  gay  chintzes  of  which  the  sun 
fell  brightly.  Not  until  she  was  well  inside  the  door 
did  she  realise  her  mistake.  At  the  same  time  she 
experienced  that  curious  sense  of  being  not  alone  in 
a  room.  A  glance  towards  the  window  confirmed 
her  subconscious  feelings;  a  man  had  risen  from  be- 
side a  woman  on  the  chintz-covered  sofa. 

"I  —  beg  your  pardon,"  stammered  Rosalind. 
Then  as  she  recognised  the  person :  "  Why  —  why, 
Eric!" 

He  stood  framed  in  the  dazzling  window;  afar 
behind  him  shimmered  the  river  in  the  warm  mid- 
day sun,  reflecting  from  its  glittering  bosom  light 
that  shone  about  his  head  in  a  soft  aureole.  He  was 
on  the  point  of  speaking  when  the  lady  on  the  sofa 
tu'rned  about,  and  Rosalind  found  herself  looking 
into  the  eyes  of  Patricia. 

"  Hullo,  Rosey !  So  you've  found  the  only  quiet 
spot  here,  too?  " 

Rosalind  felt  that  her  face  must  be  exceedingly 
pale. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  at  length  in  a 
splendid  effort  to  keep  her  tones  even. 

"  Don't  mention  it,  Rosey,"  ran  on  Patricia  point- 
edly. "  How  d'you  ever  find  us?  Sit  down,  dear, 
on  the  sofa.  Eric's  no  end  of  pretty  speeches  to- 
day. He's  been  dazzling  me  with  'em." 

Rosalind  repressed  a  great  desire  to  do  something 
mad  and  unheard  of,  abruptly  turned,  and  quitted 
the  room  and  the  house. 

Wise  and  long-suffering  La  Rochefoucauld! 
When  he  proclaimed  to  the  world  that  nothing  is 
more  natural  or  more  fallacious  than  to  persuade 
ourselves  that  we  are  beloved,  he  voiced  a  terrible 
warning  to  all  sensitive  people.  Do  these  folk  but 


210  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

care  for  a  person  ever  so  little,  they  can  interpret 
any  word  or  any  action  in  some  way  intimately 
favourable  to  themselves;  they  look  into  the  sun  of 
love  and  are  struck  blind  to  the  truth.  Yet  could 
Argus,  with  all  his  eyes,  have  withstood  its  light? 
Surely  it  had  tricked  Rosalind  like  a  veritable  Friar 
Rush,  hobgoblin  flame  which  dances  on  and  ever  on 
in  the  darkness.  Through  vicissitudes  of  doubt  and 
error,  she  had  at  last  concluded  that  there  was  a  re- 
lation between  herself  and  Eric  which  was  both  pe- 
culiar and  sincere.  On  the  receipt  of  his  telegram 
this  very  morning  of  the  wedding,  she  had  anew  re- 
solved that  every  opportunity  for  a  felicitous  con- 
clusion lay  before  her.  And  now  —  now  she  felt 
assured  that  he  had  been  but  playing  with  her! 
Nothing  can  raise  so  resentful  a  passion  in  the  human 
breast  as  the  knowledge  that  what  to  us  is  most 
sacred  and  profound  is  undervalued  by  another. 
To  Eric  her  existence  must  be  negligible.  Tortur- 
ing herself  with  the  thought  that  he  and  Patricia 
were  undoubtedly  laughing  together  now  over  her 
white  face  and  patent  sorrow,  she  strode  angrily 
along  the  Esplanade.  Plainly  the  world  was  out 
of  joint:  there  was  no  beauty  in  this  day.  The  wind 
bore  only  dust  to  her;  the  river's  surface  irritated 
with  its  perpetual  sheen;  and  the  gaiety  of  the  chil- 
dren playing  about  her  made  the  more  vivid  her 
unhappiness.  There  was  but  one  way  to  deal  with 
the  horrible  tangle.  No  hesitating,  no  attempts  to 
unravel  the  skein  —  enough  of  her  pride  and  life 
had  already  been  spent  in  that  effort:  one  swift,  sharp 
stroke,  and  it  was  over !  Rather  than  share  a  corner 
of  the  heart  she  loved,  she  would  live  a  loathsome 
thing,  as  Othello  would  have  been  a  toad  sucking  in 
the  vapours  of  a  dungeon  rather  than  have  lived  with 


Quietly  she  dosed  the  little  book  .  .  . 


MISFORTUNES  211 

Desdemona  false.  She  must  be  free;  all  possibility 
of  reciprocal  love  must  be  abandoned  and  with  it  her 
own  mighty  passion.  A  person  of  courage,  Rosa- 
lind told  herself,  would  end  it  now.  It  matters  not 
to  have  half-seen  beatitude,  if  the  consummate  sight 
is  denied.  In  questions  of  the  soul  that  materialistic 
doctrine  of  the  half  loaf,  propagated  by  the  stout 
Hanoverian,  has  no  place.  Love  knows  no  halves: 
it  is  a  beauty  indivisible. 

The  afternoon  was  endless  and  miserable.  At 
tea-time  Rosalind  vanished  from  the  house  to  avoid 
the  influx  of  callers;  and  dinner  was  such  a  tiresome, 
vapourish  affair,  that  she  escaped  as  soon  as  polite- 
ness allowed,  and,  protesting  a  headache,  wandered 
alone  into  the  music-room  and  gave  herself  over  to 
melancholy.  A  chair  before  the  fire  inviting,  she 
sank  into  its  cushions;  in  each  curling  finger  of  flame 
she  found  a  memory.  That  would  not  do.  She 
picked  up  a  book,  one  of  those  gorgeous  trifles  which 
with  jade  and  jasper  figurettes  litter  the  tables  of  the 
rich,  and  aimlessly  fluttered  the  pages. 

"  Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before — " 

Quietly  she  closed  the  little  book  with  a  trembling 
lip.  Had  she  not  stood  in  Eric's  shadow?  Had 
she  not  felt  the  unforgettable  influence  ?  Oh,  Eliza- 
beth Barrett,  by  that  one  gold  string  set  trembling 
under  thy  touch  how  hast  thou  awaked  a  responsive 
chord  in  every  breast  of  youth!  As  she  put  down 
the  "  Sonnets,"  her  hand  fell  upon  "  Gil  Bias,"  and 


212  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

she  turned  its  pages  with  a  sense  of  relief.  Always 
the  roguery  of  La  Sage,  had  made  her  laugh,  and 
now  she  trusted  in  his  power. 

"  A y  de  mi!     un  ano  felice 
Parece  un  soplo   ligero, 
Fero  sui  dicha  un  instante 
Es  un  siglo  te  tormento." 

She  let  the  book  fall  to  the  floor.  "  Alas !  a  year  of 
pleasure  passes  like  a  fleeting  breeze;  but  a  moment 
of  misfortune  seems  an  age  of  pain!  "  No  comfort 
anywhere.  She  strayed  about  the  room,  restless,  al- 
most afraid,  at  last  to  sit  moodily  before  the  piano. 
As  her  fingers  trailed  over  the  keys,  she  struck  by 
accident  a  chord  in  a  waltz  by  Edouard  Schiitt,  "  A 
La  Bien-Aimee,"  a  favourite  with  Eric  and  one  which 
she  had  learned  to  play  from  him.  She  drifted  into 
the  swinging,  irresistible  melody,  her  body  alive  with 
harmonic  echoes.  Each  note  pulled  and  stretched 
the  strings  of  her  heart.  Through  her  half-closed 
eyes  she  seemed  to  see  a  graceful  figure  at  a  piano 
with  head  thrown  back  and  fingers  flying. 

A  step  sounded  in  the  hall  outside.  Absorbed  in 
her  own  reflection,  Rosalind  had  been  subconsciously 
aware  of  the  opening  of  the  front  door  some  time 
past;  now  a  sudden  wild  hope  crowned  her  heart. 
At  last  Eric  was  come  and  they  could  re-establish  the 
glorious  quality  of  life  ! 

"Benjamin!" 

It  was  a  dizzy  height  to  drop  from.  Relaxed  in 
every  nerve  and  muscle,  Rosalind  turned  away  to 
hide  the  profundity  of  her  disappointment.  A  sud- 
den hope  at  the  best,  it  was  come  and  gone  like  a 
tardy  lightning  gleam  after  a  storm. 

"  Rose,  you  are  not  ill?  " 


MISFORTUNES  213 

Half-turned  from  him,  she  shook  her  head 
slowly.  She  was  not  what  he  would  call  ill. 

"  Your  mother  said  — "  He  did  not  finish  his 
sentence,  but  stood  looking  at  her.  There  was  a 
pause  and  she  dully  wondered  why  he  had  come. 

"  Rose,  are  you  happy?  " 

She  looked  quickly  at  him,  erect,  handsome,  a 
solid  foundation  of  society.  Yet  how  small  he 
seemed  to  her !  Nothing  about  him  save  his  physical 
mass  in  this  moment  created  in  her  the  impression  of 
size.  He  was  a  child. 

"  No,"  she  answered  truthfully,  "  I  am  not 
happy." 

"  Nor  am  I.  Is  there  any  good  in  it?  Couldn't 
we  combine  —  and  —  and  make  one  happy  out  of 
two  sads?  " 

Rosalind  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"Why  not,  dear?  I  could  give  you  everything. 
I  could  make  you  happy.  There  is  nothing  you 
could  desire  that  I  wouldn't  slave  to  win  for  you. 
Everything  would  be  yours." 

"  Not  everything." 
'Yes,  Rose.     Dear—" 

"  I  couldn't  give  everything  to  you,  Ben." 

"  Oh  I  It  doesn't  matter.  Just  you  —  to  be  with 
you,  hear  you,  see  you  —  that  is  what  I  want.  A 
touch  of  your  hand,  a  look,  the  feeling  of  your  arm 
in  mine  —  I  do  not  ask  for  more." 

"  Some  day  you  would." 

"  No  —  no.  You  don't  understand,  Rose."  He 
spoke  with  the  typical  pride  of  man,  the  superior  sex. 
"  You  can't  understand  the  —  the  —  how  much  I 
love  you." 

"I  can't,  Ben?"  Rosalind  smiled  pathetically. 
"  I  can  understand  perfectly." 


2i4  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  Perhaps  you  can :  I'm  sorry.  But  it  should 
make  you  understand  everything  then." 

He  was  close  by  her  now.  In  the  soft  light  of  the 
room  he  seemed  to  loom  up  beside  her  tired  body 
in  preposterous  dimensions. 

"  Why  have  you  come  to-night?  " 

"  Because,  dear  Rosalind,  I  am  leaving  for  the 
South.  It's  that  New  Orleans  case  I  told  you  about. 
When  I  learned  I  should  have  to  go  again,  I  —  I 
rather  liked  it,  but  now  I  don't  see  how  I  can  go 
without  a  word  from  you.  It's  too  much  for  me." 

"  You  promised  to  wait  till  June  first;  you  named 
the  day." 

"  I  know.     I  know." 

"  Now  you  are  continually  forgetting.  Why  do 
you  do  so  ?  Do  you  think  it  will  help  you  ?  " 

"No.  But  I  can't  avoid  it,  Rose.  Think  I  I 
am  going  away  for  a  month,  probably  more.  At 
the  earliest  I  cannot  get  back  before  the  last  of 
May.  Leave  you  for  a  month !  It  seems  a  —  a 
devil  of  a  time." 

"  So  you  must  really  go  again?  "  Rosalind  asked 
in  a  feeble  effort  to  frame  some  reply. 

"  How  lonely  I  shall  be!  Bad  enough  last  trip; 
think  how  much  worse  it  will  be  now.  If  I  only 
thought  I  had  some  —  if  only  you  loved  me,  Rose ! 
Then  I  could  bear  it.  You  will  forget  me  in  my  ab- 
sence; other  friends  will  occupy  your  time  and 
thoughts.  And  I  —  thousands  of  miles  away." 

"Poor,  dear  boyl" 

She  said  it  softly,  touching  his  arm  as  she  spoke. 
It  was  as  if  the  remark,  so  innocently  meant,  so 
sweetly  said,  had  ignited  a  fuse  in  his  heart.  Over- 
whelmed by  her  closeness  and  the  gentle  touch  of  her 
hand,  he  suddenly  flung  his  arms  about  her.  This 


MISFORTUNES  215 

time  Rosalind  did  not  struggle;  quiet,  cold,  neither 
willing  nor  unwilling,  limp  against  his  body,  she  en- 
dured the  mightiness  of  his  embrace. 

"  Say  it  again,  Rose !  Oh,  say  it  again !  Those 
words  are  sweet.  God  knows  I  need  some  sweet- 
ness. Can't  you  love  me,  Rose?  Won't  you  try? 
Think  what  it  means !  Where  can  you  find  another 
to  adore  you  as  I  do?  You  are  my  world,  dearest; 
I'd  chuck  up  everything  for  you.  Come,  Rose ! 
Speak  to  me !  You  don't  try  to  get  away  this  time? 
You  could  not  escape.  It  is  better  for  you  always 
to  stay  like  this,  I  know.  Am  I  cruel?  I  don't 
think  I  am.  Will  you  let  me  kiss  you,  Rose?  One 
kiss?  Before  I  go  for  a  long  time?  " 

He  would  have  kissed  her  whether  she  willed  or 
not,  for  resistance  was  impossible,  when  of  a  sud- 
den the  noise  of  some  one  in  the  hall  caught  his  ear. 
Freeing  her,  he  turned  quickly,  breathless  and 
ashamed;  there  was  no  one  there.  Swept  by  the 
tempest,  Rosalind  sank  dispiritedly  into  a  chair. 
She  felt  neither  great  indignation  nor  sorrow.  We 
are  all  of  us  human :  even  in  the  midst  of  this  passion- 
ate embrace  she  had  been  able  to  think  of  nothing 
but  her  own  woe.  In  her  passivity  lay  the  sign  of 
defeat.  Had  Eric  loved  her,  no  struggle  she  could 
have  made  would  have  been  omitted.  Now  it  did 
not  matter. 

"  Will  you  say  —  good-bye,  Rosalind?  " 

She  roused  herself  with  an  effort. 

'Why  not?     Good-bye,  Ben!" 

"  You  understand.     I  —  I  couldn't  help  it  — " 

"  I  forgive  you." 

"  Good-bye,  dearest  Rose.  Try  —  try  to  — 
don't  forget  June  first !  Good-bye !  " 

Long  after  he  had  left  the  room,  Rosalind  sat 


216  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

quiet  in  her  chair  by  the  dying  fire,  thinking  of  noth- 
ing in  particular.  Her  brain  was  dulled.  Images 
of  thought  flitted  like  shadows  through  her  mind, 
but  they  were  meaningless,  whirling,  distorted. 
Chaos  was  come  again. 

Finally  she  arose  and  went  into  the  other  room. 
The  sorrow  of  her  disillusionment  robbing  from  her 
the  tenor  of  years,  she  was  like  a  little  child,  wide- 
eyed  and  gentle  in  its  early  grief. 

"  Good-night,  Mamma." 

"  Why,  where's  Eric?  "  Mrs.  Copley  looked  up 
from  her  embroidery  with  surprise. 

"Eric?"  Rosalind  repeated  vaguely  as  if  she 
did  not  understand. 

"Haven't  you  seen  him?  He  came  about  an 
hour  ago."  Mrs.  Copley  bent  her  lovely  head  to 
examine  the  infinitesimal  emerald  watch  pendant 
about  her  neck.  "  He  seemed  so  particular  about 
seeing  you  that  I  sent  him  to  the  music-room." 

"  You  mean  that  —  that  he  was  here  this  eve- 
ning? ' 

"  Yes.  A  little  before  Benjamin  came  to  say 
good-night  to  us.  We  thought  he  was  there  with 
you  all  this  time.  Haven't  you  seen  him?  " 

Rosalind  shook  her  head,  but  she  was  not  thinking 
of  her  mother's  question.  With  bitter  faithfulness 
she  recalled  the  picture  of  herself  in  Benjamin's 
arms,  the  sound  without  the  door,  and  her  sudden 
release.  The  shaking  of  her  head  was  a  pathetic 
recognition  in  her  own  mind  that  at  last  was  come 
the  culminating  misfortune. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A   SHORT   CHAPTER   BUT  AN   IMPORTANT   ONE 


go  to  my  desk." 

In  obedience  to  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton's 
wish  the  young  man  moved  from  his  side. 

"  The  drawer  on  the  left.  .  .  .  Bring  it  here." 
The  invalid's  eyes  followed  with  a  tender  regard  the 
movements  of  this  companion  who  was  doing  so 
much  to  make  bearable  his  dull  watch  in  the  store- 
house of  years.  Lifting  from  the  drawer  a  pearl- 
circled  miniature,  he  spoke  again. 

"  Look,  Eric.     Your  mother." 

The  young  man  took  in  his  hand  the  little  picture 
and,  carrying  it  to  the  window,  gazed  at  it  long  and 
steadfastly.  The  wound  of  his  mother's  death  was 
still  unhealed.  Again  those  images  which  cluster 
round  the  child's  love  winged  in  unending  sequence 
through  his  mind  ;  again  the  realisation  that  she  was 
a  soul  in  bliss  caused  his  throat  to  tighten. 

"  When  I  die,  that  shall  be  yours.  She  gave  it  to 
me;  you  will  treasure  it." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Eric  mechanically,  like 
one  whose  mind  voyages  in  unknown  spheres.  His 
eyes  rested  darkly  on  the  shining  jewels,  yet  seemed 
not  to  see  them. 

"  Did  she  ever  speak  of  me?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"  Sometimes  to  me,  Godfather."  (He  had  fallen 
into  the  way  of  calling  the  invalid  by  that  name.) 
"  More  often  when  I  was  a  little  child  and  —  just 

217 


218  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

lately.  She  thought  so  much  of  you.  How  it  would 
please  her  to  know  your  kindness  to  me  and  my  hap- 
piness here!  "  The  sunlight,  streaming  in  through 
the  window,  made  shadows  on  Eric's  down-turned 
face.  "  She  does  know,  I  am  sure.  I  feel  her 
sometimes  .  .  .  close  beside  me." 

The  invalid  stretched  out  his  thin  arm.  The 
white  hand,  reaching  the  square  of  light  which  fell 
through  the  window,  trembled  slowly. 

"  I  loved  her,  Eric." 

"  Tell  me,  Godfather."  The  young  man's  voice 
was  more  than  tender;  some  thrill  of  kinship  haunted 
it. 

"  No.  It's  gone.  .  .  .  She  was  married  and  1  — 
young,  at  the  Beaux  Arts.  .  .  .  Like  you."  He 
smiled  wanly. 

"  I  had  not  known  that  —  that  she  was  married  to 
father  then." 

'  Yes.     He  was  away  much,  singing." 

"  He  always  was.  Poor  mother !  She  never  saw 
much  of  him.  I  scarcely  knew  him  when  I  was  little. 
Then  the  glamour  of  the  thing  was  a  source  of  pride; 
but  now  that  mother's  gone  "  (he  paused  before  con- 
tinuing) "  I  wish  I'd  had  a  more  human  father.  I 
am  —  almost  alone.  .  .  .  Mother  and  I  were  such 
comrades." 

"  My  dear  boy!  "  In  the  invalid's  tones  sounded 
a  deep  affection.  As  he  bent  his  eyes  on  Eric's  fine 
features,  his  own  youth  rang  back  across  the  years 
like  the  faint  echoing  of  a  far  distant  sound. 

"Godfather,  were  they  happy  together?"     The 
old  man's  hand  moved  across  the  arm  of  his  otto- 
man.    "  You  must  have  known." 
'Why?" 

"  I    scarcely   know.     Father   always   seemed   in- 


A  SHORT  CHAPTER  219 

tensely  devoted  and  mother  —  mother  loved  him, 
too.  Not  as  much  as  he  loved  her,  I  think.  Some- 
how, though  ...  I  scarcely  know  what  I  mean, 
but  there  seemed  something  missing  in  their  life. 
Yet  I  could  not  say  what  it  was.  I  suppose 
it  was  father's  career  which  kept  him  apart  so 
much." 

Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  did  not  make  any  re- 
mark. 

"  Eric,"  he  said  at  length.  "Don't  make  your 
life  like  mine  .  .  .  ruined." 

"  But  you  couldn't  help  your  sickness,  sir." 

"  Not  that.  .  .  .  Loneliness,  Eric.  Loneliness. 
At  night  —  by  day."  There  was  a  longer  pause. 
With  the  painful  introspection  of  all  invalids  the 
old  man  was  making  a  sad  summation  of  his  life; 
his  companion  waited,  wordless  when  words  were  of 
no  avail.  Mr.  Singleton  broke  the  silence  first. 
"  Love  some  one,  boy;  keep  that  some  one." 

The  young  man  gazed  over  the  graded  housetops 
to  where  the  Basin  dazzled. 

"  I  did  love  some  one,  sir,"  he  answered  slowly. 
"  But  I  think  I  found  out  in  time.  I  thought  she 
loved  me,  too.  She  had  been  more  my  ideal  of 
womanhood  than  any  one  I  had  ever  seen  —  except 
my  mother.  But  just  before  I  —  I  lost  myself,  I 
found  out  by  chance  that  some  one  else.  .  .  .  You 
see,  I  happened  to  see  her  in  his  arms."  Eric  shook 
his  head  with  a  sad  smile  at  the  world  outside,  a 
smile  which  seemed  to  dismiss  an  infinite  amount  of 
potential  beauty  from  life.  "  The  memory  is  very 
fresh  —  now." 

"  My  dream  always  was  .  .  .  you  and  Rosa- 
lind," innocently  volunteered  Mr.  Singleton  Single- 
ton. 


220  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

Eric  wheeled  about,  his  face  alive  with  swift  sur- 
prise. 

"  Rosalind!  " 

The  old  man  nodded. 

"  Why !     It  —  it  was  Rosalind  I  — " 

He  broke  off  in  amazement. 

'You  —  you  —  mean?"  The  old  man  moved 
on  the  sofa  eagerly. 

"  I  had  begun  to  love  Rose;  I  was  on  the  verge 
of  great  happiness;  and  then  —  then  —  I  found  her, 
as  I  said,  in  another  man's  arms!  So  I've  had  to 
give  it  up.  .  .  .  She  does  not  love  me.  Why  should 
she?  She  will  marry  some  Boston  man,  some  fine, 
noble,  stup  —  but  never  mind !  .  .  .  Yet,  Godfather, 
she  really  seemed  to  love  me.  I  — " 

"  She  —  she  —  she  — " 

Mr.  Singleton  Singleton  half  rose  in  his  chair,  his 
hand  outstretched,  the  eagerness  for  the  perfection 
of  his  ideal  starting  in  his  eyes.  Suddenly  the  words 
murmured,  turned  into  unrelated  sounds  upon  his 
pale  lips.  His  dull  eyes  dilated;  he  had  become  in 
an  instant  deathly  white.  He  wavered  uncertainly 
on  his  feet,  then  dropped  to  the  floor  with  a  gulping 
sound  and  sprawled  there,  voiceless,  motionless, 
senseless.  The  long  dreaded  stroke  had  come. 

With  a  horrified  cry  Eric  leaped  to  his  side.  Ex- 
erting his  strength  to  the  utmost,  he  dragged  the 
stilled  body  to  the  ottoman,  noting  that  the  pulse 
still  kept  up  an  uncertain  beating.  In  answer  to  his 
furious  pressure  of  the  bell  the  servants  streamed  up- 
stairs and  stood  in  helpless  consternation,  while  he, 
overwhelmed  by  the  suddenness  of  the  catastrophe, 
remained  standing  by  the  invalid,  clasping  the  limp 
hand.  Edouard  alone  retained  his  wits.  With 
faithful  tears  in  his  eyes  he  hurried  to  the  telephone, 


A  SHORT  CHAPTER  221 

making  the  necessary  calls  with  so  much  despatch 
that  as  he  arose  from  his  chair,  Dr.  Chick,  the  near- 
est physician,  was  heard  knocking  at  the  door. 

Dr.  Ebenezer  Chick  had  the  appearance  of  a  fret- 
ful humming  bird,  and  was  one  of  those  practi- 
tioners who  derive  their  practice  from  this  sole 
recommendation :  their  propinquity  to  the  house  in  a 
case  of  emergency.  Standing  beside  the  ottoman  in 
a  fluster  of  excitement,  he  felt  of  the  invalid's  pulse 
and  stared  helplessly  at  his  watch,  as  if  he  hoped  to 
find  in  its  vacuous  face  the  information  which  no  in- 
ternal agency  could  furnish  him. 

"  It's  very  serious,"  he  ventured  nervously. 
"Oh,  very!  I  really  think  —  I  mean  I  scarcely 
know  what  to  say.  This  pulse  is  very  bad!  Put 
him  to  bed!  He  can't  stay  like  this,  you  know. 
Oh!  it's  very  serious,  very!  There's  the  nurse, 
thank  Heaven !  " 

Fluttering  to  the  window,  Dr.  Chick  looked  out 
and  shook  his  head  with  indecisive  weakness.  In 
an  agony  of  doubt  Eric  followed  him. 

"  Do  you  think  he  —  he  will  live?  " 

Under  the  supervision  of  the  nurse  the  invalid 
was  carried  from  the  room  to  his  bed.  Only  his 
laboured  breathing  testified  that  the  air  of  life  still 
stirred  within  him. 

"  I  could  hardly  say.  Perhaps;  perhaps  not.  In 
some  cases,  yes;  in  some  cases,  no.  If  I  gave  him  a 
week,  he  might  die  to-morrow;  if  I  gave  him  to- 
morrow, he  might  live  for  a  year.  It's  a  touch  and 
go  thing,  sir." 

Dr.  Cary's  arrival  put  an  end  to  such  torturing 
insufficiency.  As  the  little  surgeon  sprang  up  the 
stairs,  two  at  a  time,  a  new  feeling  seemed  to  walk 
through  the  house.  At  last  was  come  authority,  if 


222  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

not  in  the  malady  particular  to  Mr.  Singleton  Single- 
ton, most  certainly  in  the  highest  practice  of  the  art 
of  medicine.  Followed  by  Eric  and  Chick,  Dr.  Gary 
approached  the  bedside  of  his  old  friend.  There 
was  in  his  bearing  that  which  struck  into  the  hearts 
of  his  companions  confident  respect  for  what  he 
would  say.  In  such  a  moment  a  great  doctor  is 
figured  in  the  mind  as  can  no  other  mortal  ever  be; 
he  seems  a  medium  between  life  and  death,  a  trans- 
lator of  a  divine  message,  one  about  whose  head  the 
Pentecostal  flames  have  danced.  Even  Dr.  Chick, 
swollen  with  the  importance  of  being  the  associate 
of  the  most  famous  surgeon  in  America,  hung  like 
Eric  on  the  newcomer's  lips.  After  a  careful  ex- 
amination of  the  white,  still  figure,  Dr.  Cary  ad- 
dressed them. 

"  I  wouldn't  give  him  a  week  to  live.  It's  over 
this  time  .  .  .  Poor  Tony !  " 

Eric,  who  had  been  so  recently  in  the  presence  of 
death,  stepped  back,  his  heart  full  of  swift-grown 
grief.  Was  he  to  lose  also  this  newest  and  kindest 
friend  ? 

"  Chick,"  said  Dr.  Cary,  turning  from  the  bed, 
"  will  you  stay  by  Mr.  Singleton  from  now  on? 
There's  little  to  be  done,  but  I  want  you  to  see  to 
that  little  yourself.  Make  him  as  comfortable  as 
possible.  You  have  treated  parallel  cases?  "  (Dr. 
Chick  nodded  importantly.)  "  Aphasia,  you  see. 
Complete  shock.  Paralysis  on  right  side.  Er  — 
ah  —  with  your  permission  I  will  associate  Sir 
Chadby  Leigh  in  the  case  with  us."  (Dr.  Chick  al- 
most gasped:  the  great  Leigh,  his  associate!)  "I 
am  to  meet  him  in  conference  this  afternoon.  He,  if 
any  one,  will  know  what  to  do.  How  fortunate  he 


A  SHORT  CHAPTER  223 

is  on  this  side  just  now.  By  the  way,  Rolland, 
where's  Rosalind?  Has  she  been  told?  " 

Privileged  by  long  service,  Edouard  answered  in 
his  stead.  "  She  was  out,  sir.  She's  expected  back 
at  any  moment." 

"  Tell  her  gently,  Rolland.  You  know  what  he 
means  to  her." 

Eric  nodded. 

"  I'll  call  her  up  again  myself,"  he  said,  flushing. 
"  The  surprise  of  it  all  made  me  forget." 

A  warm  current  of  sympathy  sped  through  his 
body.  When  he  saw  that  the  doctors  were  engaged 
in  earnest  discussion,  he  hurried  to  the  telephone  and 
called  the  Copleys'  house,  his  heart  touched  to  the 
quick.  Above  all  things  he  desired  at  that  moment 
to  make  her  feel  his  compassion. 

"  Yes;  who  is  it?  "  answered  Rosalind,  after  what 
seemed  an  interminable  time. 

"  Eric." 

"  Oh !  "  A  staccato  exclamation  came  distantly 
to  him,  tinged  with  an  indefinable  antagonism. 

"Are  you  —  coming  to  the  Square  to-day?" 
He  fumbled  for  words,  uncertain  how  to  speak. 

"No  — that  is  — I—" 

"  I  wondered.  You  see  your  —  your  godfather 
—  he's  not  —  quite  well." 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  has  happened?" 
The  voice  was  changed  now;  the  tones  sounded  pain- 
fully expectant. 

"  Why,  Rosalind,  he's  —  he's  —  we've  had  to  put 
him  to  bed  and  get  the  doctor.  I  think  you  had  — " 

"Is  it  very  serious?  Oh,  Eric!  How  did  it 
happen?  " 

Without  waiting   for   his   reply,    Rosalind   flung 


224  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

down  the  receiver.  It  did  not  take  her  long  to  reach 
the  Square.  As  she  mounted  the  stairs,  all  hope 
seemed  to  drop  from  her.  The  automobiles  of  the 
two  doctors,  the  pale  face  of  the  servant  who  ad- 
mitted her,  the  silent  nurse,  the  already  increased 
oppression  in  the  house's  atmosphere,  made  her 
keenly  aware  of  impending  tragedy.  At  the  time 
she  entered  his  room  the  invalid  had  in  no  way  re- 
covered from  the  shock.  Inert,  blank  in  mind,  un- 
able to  speak,  he  lay  upon  his  great  four-posted  bed, 
unconscious  as  the  coverlet  itself  of  the  tears  which 
flowed  from  Rosalind's  eyes.  Nor  had  he  mended 
from  the  shock  when  at  twilight  with  bending  head 
she  trailed  down  the  stairway. 

Eric  came  forward  to  meet  her. 

"Any  change?  " 

11  None." 

She  shook  her  head.  As  together  they  entered 
the  great  drawing-room,  she  found  a  pathetic  com- 
fort in  being  with  Eric  in  her  grief.  If  he  had  been 
bitterly  unkind,  nevertheless  to  him  she  had  given 
her  most  inspired  love.  Her  godfather  had  been 
almost  a  part  of  her,  the  guardian  of  her  youthful 
secrets,  in  her  young  womanhood  the  greatest  bond 
between  herself  and  Eric.  In  the  moment  of  this 
bond's  loosening,  it  was  sweet  to  be  with  that  which 
it  had  formerly  grappled  to  her  heart. 

"You  were  with  him?"  she  asked  at  length. 

"  Yes.  We  were  together  in  the  upstairs 
library." 

"  If  I  had  only  been  here!  Now  he  may  never 
speak  again,  may  never  know  me  any  more.  And  I 
was  not  here!  " 

"  It  was  very  unexpected.  We  were  talking  to- 
gether and  suddenly  — !  " 


A  SHORT  CHAPTER  225 

u  How  did  it  happen?  What  were  you  talking 
about?  " 

Eric  fell  a  colour  surge  into  his  face.  The  sud- 
den remembrance  of  the  scene,  of  all  that  had  been 
said  swept  across  him  as  he  stood  halting  for  words. 

"  Why !     We  —  we  were  talking  about  —  you !  " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE    SUN   GOES   DOWN   IN    LOUISE URG   SQUARE 

SIR  CHADBY  LEIGH  invariably  wore  a  dark 
blue  cutaway  with  a  gardenia  in  the  buttonhole. 
As  a  rule  his  face  was  red,  and  his  lips  were 
pursed  into  a  magisterial  frown  which  well  became 
a  man  of  his  position  in  the  medical  world;  but 
whether  his  face  was  red  or  white  and  whether  he 
frowned  or  smiled,  the  gardenia  nestled  odorously 
on  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  Only  once  had  the  wax-like 
boutonniere  been  forgotten :  on  that  day  he  had  been 
summoned  in  the  same  hour  to  the  bedsides  of  two 
Princes  of  the  Blood.  In  such  a  crisis  even  an  Eng- 
lishman forgets  what  is  customary. 

The  morning  following  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton's 
shock  there  was  a  conference  in  the  great  drawing- 
room  of  8  Louisburg  Square.  While  Sir  Chadby 
stood  grandly  in  a  corner  by  a  window,  Dr.  Gary 
walked  to  and  fro  near  him  and  Dr.  Chick  gazed  at 
the  great  man  with  unqualified  approbation. 

;'  It  is  your  definite  opinion  then  that  there  is  no 
chance?  "  Dr.  Cary  asked  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
is  determined  to  take  the  reply  as  final. 

The  baronet  looked  thoughtfully  at  his  gardenia. 
"  None,"  he  answered. 

Dr.  Chick  shook  his  head  as  if  he  had  suspected 
this  all  along  and  had  only  waited  until  now  to  con- 
firm his  impression.  "  You  have  seen  a  worse  case, 
though  ?  "  he  queried. 

226 


THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN  227 

Sir  Chadby  coughed  impressively. 

"  Perhaps.  Our  patient's  stroke  recalls  that  of 
Prince  George,  whom  I  had  the  honour  to  attend 
last  year.  You  recall  his  illness,  I  have  no  doubt." 

Dr.  Ebenezer  Chick  nervously  assented.  Though 
he  had  never  heard  of  Prince  George,  it  gave  him  a 
peculiar  thrill  of  pride  to  talk  with  a  baronet  about 
the  symptoms  of  a  prince. 

"  How  many  days  do  you  give  him?  "  asked  Dr. 
Gary,  emerging  from  his  meditation. 

"  Four.     Not  more  than  five  at  the  most." 

"  I  am  not  particularly  up  in  this  field,  Leigh. 
He  will  talk  again?" 

"  Probably.  I  think,  I  am  almost  sure  that  the 
aphasia  will  disappear  a  little  before  death.  It  hap- 
pens in  sixty  per  cent  of  the  cases.  Then,  if  he 
regains  consciousness,  he  may  speak  coherently." 
Sir  Chadby  paused  to  snuff  up  the  sensuous  odour  of 
his  little  flower.  "  Is  there  anything  further, 
Cary?  " 
~  "I*  think  not." 

"  Then  I  must  run  along.  Since  I  am  leaving  for 
Montreal  to-night  after  the  conference,  I  shan't  see 
him  again."  He  looked  upward  significantly. 
They  had  moved  into  the  hall  and  Sir  Chadby  was 
putting  on  his  top  hat.  "  By  the  way,  Cary,"  he 
asked  in  an  appropriately  delicate  voice,  "  to  whom 
shall  I  send  the  —  er  —  note?" 

"  To  me." 

"  Right !     I  shall  see  you  at  the  conference." 

The  door  closed  behind  the  baronet  and  the  two 
doctors  returned  to  the  drawing-room. 

"  A  very  great  man !  "  exclaimed  Dr.  Chick. 
"  Dear  me,  how  interesting!  Did  you  hear  him  re- 
fer to  Prince  George?  I've  no  doubt  he's  on  inti- 


228  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

mate  terms  with  half  the  peerage  of  England.  How 
fortunate  that  he  was  here !  " 

"  Fortunate?  "  queried  the  other  coldly.  "  I  do 
not  see  that  he  has  helped  us  or  could  have.  Bah!  " 
Dr.  Gary  turned  his  back  on  the  discomfited  practi- 
tioner. "  I  wanted  help,  not  confirmation.  But 
there's  nothing  to  be  done :  it's  all  over." 

Without  looking  round  again,  he  quitted  the  room 
and  went  upstairs;  after  which  Dr.  Chick  returned  to 
his  little  house  in  Lime  Street  and  told  his  wife  the 
first  version  of  a  story  destined  to  become  famous  in 
his  small  circle :  namely,  how  Sir  Chadby  Leigh, 
Bart.,  had  asked  his  (Ebenezer  Chick,  M.D.'s)  ad- 
vice about  a  certain  Prince  George,  whose  other  titles 
medical  tact  forbade  the  narrator  ever  to  disclose. 

Rosalind  had  waited  in  the  library  upstairs  for  the 
conclusion  of  the  conference.  As  the  little  surgeon 
entered  the  room,  the  expression  in  his  eyes  be- 
trayed the  truth. 

"Oh,  Dr.  Caryl" 

He  gently  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"  It  has  to  come,  Rosalind.  That's  the  only  way 
of  thinking  about  it." 

A  faintness  filled  Rosalind's  body;  she  was  pale 
and  dumb  before  this  first  great  deprivation. 

"  And  is  it  —  must  it  — " 

"  Leigh  said  there  was  no  chance." 

"And  you?" 

"  He  must  know." 

She  sat  down  slowly,  trying  to  think  out  what  had 
happened,  to  appreciate  what  she  was  to  lose. 

'  Will  he  —  ever  know  us  —  again?  " 

"  I  think  so  —  and  speak,  too.  Leigh  seemed 
sure  on  that  point." 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  murmured  simply. 


THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN  229 

Dr.  Gary  placed  his  hand  kindly  on  her  shoulder. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  losing,  Rosalind.  I  was 
about  his  oldest  friend,  I  suppose." 

After  the  surgeon  had  gone,  Rosalind  sat  still  in 
her  chair.  At  first  grief  is  impossible  to  realise. 
Though  her  godfather  had  been  for  the  last  five 
years  an  invalid,  she  had  never  associated  him  in 
her  mind  with  mortality.  In  the  flowering  of  her 
womanhood  he  still  remained  the  dominant  figure 
of  earlier  days,  of  the  time  when  from  him  blessings 
and  presents  flowed.  The  happy  impressions  of 
childhood  are  those  which  linger  longest:  that  is 
why  in  the  chill  of  age  we  remember  our  mothers  as 
young  and  beautiful.  As  she  sat  by  the  window 
Rosalind  sought  to  make  compatible  in  her  mind  the 
pale,  rigid  figure  in  the  next  room  and  the  remem- 
bered godfather  of  her  youth.  Yet  tears  did  not 
come.  Until  the  sufferer's  breath  ceases  to  fluctuate 
in  his  breast,  death  remains  to  the  anxious  watcher 
as  a  possible  but  not  a  probable  occurrence.  So 
strong  are  the  bonds  of  mortality  with  us. 

With  the  next  days  came  understanding.  Ter- 
rible days  they  were,  filled  with  watching  and  wait- 
ing by  day  and  night,  with  hoping  where  there  was 
no  possibility  of  hope,  with  praying  where  the  nega- 
tion of  the  prayer  was  gone  before.  There  was 
about  the  house  a  stillness  which  rendered  spoken 
words  louder  and  more  pointless  than  at  all  other 
times,  and  Rosalind  and  Eric,  though  continually 
together  now,  said  but  little  to  each  other.  At  first 
she  had  found  his  presence  an  embarrassment. 
Mindful  of  her  shattered  hopes,  it  seemed  an  added 
strain  to  have  him  by  her,  tacitly  sympathetic.  This 
feeling  soon  passed  away.  As  the  days  dragged  by, 
the  sole  comfort  in  her  hours  of  ceaseless  watching 


230  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

by  the  invalid's  bed  was  the  presence  and  accordant 
sorrow  of  Eric.  Together  they  sat  side  by  side  in 
the  panelled  bed-chamber;  together  they  saw  the 
morning  sun  swim  hotly  through  the  vacant  sky;  to- 
gether they  watched  its  softer  light,  shadowed  by 
clouds,  sweetly  glowing  in  the  old  Square;  together 
they  experienced  the  calm  sadness  of  the  finished  day 
and  silent  saw  the  stars  creep  out.  Through  the 
unending  passage  of  hours  the  invalid  lay  motion- 
less. Sun,  moon,  stars  stirred  across  the  sky  and 
still  he  rested  in  oblivion.  Very  rarely  Rosalind 
went  out,  but  occasionally  it  was  necessary  to  breathe 
air  freed  from  the  attendant  presence  of  death.  At 
such  a  time  Dr.  Gary  or  her  mother  or  father  would 
take  the  place  by  the  window,  that  when  the  invalid 
awoke  for  the  last  time  he  might  not  look  upon  an 
unknown  face. 

To  the  world  outside,  the  sickness  of  the  old  man 
was  of  no  interest.  Even  the  yellow  journals 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  him  who  in  other  days  had 
furnished  them  with  such  abundant  social  copy. 
When  a  figure  in  society  abandons  the  customary 
cane  with  evening  dress  or  grows  sidewhiskers,  the 
world  is  accordingly  thrilled;  but  when  he  dies,  he 
dies  alone.  Only  the  intimate  circle,  those  who 
could  remember  five  years  back  to  the  time  when 
his  name  had  been  a  Sesame,  were  solicitous. 
Among  the  latter,  his  neighbours,  the  Misses  Hep- 
plethwaite  sent  flowers,  and  called  several  times  at 
29  Commonwealth,  but  whether  because  of  real 
sympathy  for  their  old  neighbour  or  because  of  that 
curiosity  which  is  the  inseparable  attribute  of  all 
spinsters,  Mrs.  Copley  declared  herself  at  a  loss  to 
decide. 

May    Day   came.     In   the    afternoon    Eric    and 


THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN  231 

Rosalind  quitted  the  house,  leaving  Mr.  Copley  by 
the  window  in  the  invalid's  room.  Upon  the  Square 
slept  the  calm,  sapphire  glow  of  afternoon;  only  to 
live  in  such  air  was  peacefulness.  They  wandered 
to  the  Esplanade,  where  the  sunlight  burned  in  golden 
bars  upon  the  river's  breast.  There  a  ragged  child 
offered  fragrant  mayflowers  for  sale,  hawking  the 
blossoms  timidly  among  the  stream  of  slow-moving 
passers-by.  Struck  by  her  appearance,  Eric  gener- 
ously purchased  the  whole  of  her  stock,  which  made 
even  then  but  a  moderate  bouquet. 

'  The  first  flowers  of  the  year,"  said  Rosalind. 
"  Thank  you.  How  sweet  they  smell !  " 

Raising  the  pink  sprays  to  her  face  she  breathed 
in  their  fragrance.  This  was  Eric's  first  gift.  She 
stole  a  glance  at  him,  gazing  abstractedly  across  the 
bright  river.  How  little  the  thought  and  the  giv- 
ing stirred  him,  how  much  her !  A  crowd  of  pathetic 
desires  eddied  in  her  heart  as  she  thought  of  those 
dull,  sad  times  to  come  when  memories  of  her  god- 
father would  swarm  back  and  find  her  alone  without 
the  comfort  of  Eric's  presence.  As  she  turned  im- 
pulsively away,  she  felt  assured  that  the  inevitable 
accompaniment  of  her  godfather's  death  would  be 
her  separation  from  this  beloved  companion;  and 
the  assurance  made  her  grief  intolerable.  But  Eric, 
however  deeply  abstracted,  observed  her  turn  away. 
Attributing  the  movement  to  her  sorrow  for  her 
godfather,  he  cast  about  for  some  object  of  interest 
with  which  to  divert  her  attention.  An  eight-oared 
crew  came  swinging  through  the  still  water  towards 
them,  the  paddles  gleaming  in  the  sunlight. 

"  Look !  "  he  cried,  pointing  to  the  approaching 
shell.  "  How  graceful  that  is !  Who  are  they,  I 
wonder?  " 


232  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

She  turned  her  eyes  to  the  river  again.  They  had 
stopped  by  the  iron  railing  and  were  standing  where 
the  river  slowly  lapped  about  the  stone  embankment. 

"  Some  Harvard  crew,  I  suppose,"  she  answered 
listlessly.  In  her  heart  arose  a  sudden  bitterness 
that  such  irrelevancies  could  hold  place  with  Eric. 

"  Rose." 

"  Yes  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  could  —  make  you  think  of  something 
else." 

Rosalind  started.  What  had  she  been  thinking 
of? 

"Thank  you,  Eric.  You  can;  you  always  do." 
She  said  it  far  more  gratefully  and  truthfully  than 
he  could  understand.  A  sudden  desire  to  empty  her 
heart  took  possession  of  her  as  she  looked  up  in  his 
face,  tender  in  sympathy.  "  Just  now  you  have 
made  me  think  of  something  else." 

"What?'' 

Rosalind  thrilled  with  a  new  courage  to  speak. 
The  glistening  river,  the  sun-bright  air,  the  soft 
placidity  of  the  Basin  contrasted  with  the  rumble  of 
the  haze-veiled  city,  everything  that  was  beautiful 
and  fair  in  the  midst  of  the  ugly  town  seemed  to 
tell  her  that  the  moment  to  speak  had  come. 

"  I  was  wondering  where  —  you  would  go  after  — 
after  it  was  all  over." 

She  felt  his  eyes  upon  her. 

"  I  have  wondered,  too,"  he  replied  with  a  remi- 
niscent slowness.  "  Back  to  Paris,  I  suppose." 

"  What  a  long  way  off  that  is,"  said  Rosalind  wist- 
fully. 

"  A  whole  ocean's  breadth." 

There  was  a  pause,  broken  by  the  staccato  cries 


[THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN  233 

of    the     coxswain     of    the     fast     receding    crew. 

"  And  you  will  be  glad  to  go  back,  Eric?  " 

"Glad  because  it  is  to  France;  sorry  because  it 
means  leaving  you  all." 

Rosalind  looked  hard  at  the  dark,  turgid  water  in 
the  shadow  at  their  feet.  Whom  did  he  include  in 
that  little  word? 

"  I  shall  come  and  see  you  some  day  in  Paris, 
Eric." 

"  Do  you  mean  it?  " 

"  We'll  be  old  then."  Rosalind's  voice  was  soft. 
"  And  we  can  talk  about  old  times  and  never  care." 

"  That  will  never  be,"  said  Eric  earnestly. 
1  You  mean  — " 

u  I  shall  always  remember  these  days  as  some- 
thing to  care  very  much  about." 

"  And  I,  too."  She  glanced  at  her  companion  and 
was  filled  with  a  sudden  boldness  to  speak  further. 
"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  here  now.  I  have  not  told 
you,  but  —  you  understand." 

"  If  I  could  help  you  — •  and  him  —  by  it,  I'd  stay 
here  forever." 

Rosalind's  fingers  played  excitedly  on  the  railing. 
If  only  he  might  be  made  to  understand !  If  only  he 
could  truly  mean  these  words ! 

"  When  you  go  back  —  it  —  it  will  be  — !  How 
shall  I  get  along  without  you,  Eric?  It  will  be  quite 
unbearable !  " 

She  looked  wistfully  in  his  face. 

"  My  home  seems  really  here  —  now.  It  is  good 
of  you  to  say  these  things,  Rose." 

"  I  mean  them,"  she  went  on  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Our  friendship  is  a  great  deal  of  what  is  worth 
while  to  me." 


234  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  I  shall  remember  that  always.     Rose  — " 
"  Miss  Rose!     Miss  Rose!     Come  back  quick,  if 
you  please!     Mr.  Singleton's  speaking!  " 

With  a  startling  suddenness  the  imminent  beauty 
was  dispelled.  At  the  very  instant  when  her  desires 
seemed  about  to  be  fulfilled  the  faithful  Edouard, 
his  eyes  staring  with  haste  and  excitement,  burst 
upon  them.  No  dreams  more !  No  gazing  at  the 
shimmering  river !  With  a  single  motion  Rosalind 
and  Eric  turned  and  sped  up  the  Esplanade  towards 
Beacon  Hill. 

Mr.  John  Singleton  Copley  had  taken  Rosalind's 
place  by  the  window.  Sitting  rather  uncomfortably 
in  his  chair,  he  now  and  then  cast  a  glance  at  the 
bed  across  the  room.  He  was  not  a  sentimental 
man,  nor  a  particularly  sensitive  one.  Perhaps  he 
loved  his  wife  and  children  considerably  more  than 
most  rich  husbands,  but  beyond  that  his  affections 
were  hardly  profound  or  far-reaching.  Mr.  Single- 
ton Singleton  and  he  were  second  cousins,  which  of 
itself  in  Boston  usually  meant  no  more  than  that  all 
our  best  people  are  in  some  manner  connected.  But 
closer  ties  had  bound  them.  Not  only  were  they  the 
two  oldest  members  of  the  great  Copley  family,  but 
Mr.  Singleton  was  his  daughter's  godfather  and 
had  in  fact  seemed  in  his  younger  days  almost  his 
own  brother. 

Mr.  Copley  was  thinking  of  all  this  as  he  sat 
rather  uncomfortably  in  his  chair.  He  had  tried  to 
read  at  first,  but  one  cannot  read  at  such  a  time  any- 
thing but  words.  Therefore,  taking  off  his  glasses 
very  slowly,  he  resigned  himself  to  thought.  He 
had  been  fond  of  his  cousin.  Mr.  Copley  remem- 
bered the  pleasures  which  they  had  shared  together. 


THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN  235 

From  knickerbockers  they  had  been  playmates  —  at 
school,  at  college,  in  later  life;  they  had  been  in  the 
same  clubs,  known  the  same  circle;  they  had  travelled 
together,  lived  together  —  yes,  he  had  been  fond  of 
his  cousin.  He  nodded  his  head  a  great  many  times 
and  then,  remembering,  looked  at  the  bed  furtively. 
The  room  was  utterly  quiet:  he  could  not  notice. 
Mr.  Copley  felt  suddenly  very  old.  Looking  at  the 
pale,  rigid  figure  across  the  room,  it  seemed  that  he 
himself  was  probably  paler  and  less  supple  than  he 
imagined.  Death.  What  happened  to  people 
when  they  died?  What  would  happen  to  his 
cousin?  What  would  happen  to  himself?  Mr. 
Copley  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair;  up  to  the  present 
time  these  questions  had  not  troubled  his  mind  to 
any  great  extent.  He  looked  through  the  window 
at  the  warm,  swimming  sky.  Was  there  anything 
behind  that  blue  canopy?  Then  he  remembered 
that  it  was  not  a  canopy  at  all,  but  ever  more  and 
more  infinite  space.  Where  was  God  in  this  blue- 
ness?  A  little  bird  swooped  down  in  a  flutter  of 
wings  upon  the  window  ledge  outside.  As  Mr. 
Copley  stared  at  it,  it  came  into  his  mind  that  God 
loved  even  the  birds  and  would  suffer  no  harm  to 
them.  Then  certainly  his  cousin  would  be  cared 
for;  there  was  reasoning  in  that.  Mr.  Copley  did 
not  say  prayers;  like  so  many  men,  his  churchgoing 
was  limited  to  unpleasant  winter  Sundays.  By  no 
means  agnostic,  he  was  of  the  modern  type  to  whom 
religion  is  a  rod  with  which  to  frighten  children 
rather  than  a  staff  on  which  men  and  women  may 
lean.  He  had  always  considered  religion  illogical  — 
when  he  did  consider  it.  Yet  now  he  found  in  it 
reason  which  made  him  feel  more  at  his  ease.  Still 
it  was  not  comfortable  sitting  in  that  panelled  cham- 


23 6  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

her  with  the  inscrutable  enigma,  death,  at  hand. 
Even  the  very  outside  world  itself  looked  different 
from  the  windows  of  such  a  room.  The  clouds 
which  now  and  then  stole  before  the  sun  cast  their 
big,  ruthless  shadows  over  the  Square  like  forebod- 
ing messengers;  yet  when  the  sun  itself  shone,  it 
seemed  cruel  and  hard  in  contrast  with  the  painful- 
ness  in  the  house. 

Mr.  Copley's  mind  drifted  in  a  gradual  transition 
from  death  to  life,  from  life  to  his  life,  from  his 
life  to  what  he  had  done  with  his  life  that  morning, 
from  that  to  his  farm,  where  he  had  been  all  day 
before  coming  to  town.  There  his  thoughts  rested. 
He  loved  his  farm  with  the  pride  of  a  child  pos- 
sessed of  a  magnificent  toy,  with  the  intensity  of  man 
who  is  too  rich  to  work,  yet  too  refined  to  do  noth- 
ing. He  thought  of  his  asparagus  and  his  beets,  of 
the  Angora  goats  and  the  thirty-two  Jerseys,  of  the 
new  hotbeds  which  he  had  himself  designed.  A 
pleasant  channel  this :  let  the  mind  run  free !  Let  it 
wander  through  the  great  pine  groves  and  the  bean- 
fields  and  the  odorous  meadow  with  the  little  foals 
'in  it!  Let  it  traverse  all  the  earthly  beauty  which 
it  prized! 

In  the  midst  of  an  apple-orchard,  Mr.  Copley 
suddenly  started,  his  hands  gripping  the  arms  of  his 
chair.  A  faint-whispered  sound  had  come  to  him. 
With  a  scarcely  perceptible  circle  of  sweat  upon  his 
brow,  he  turned  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"Jack!" 

Again !  The  room  was  darker  now,  and  Mr. 
Copley,  straining  his  eyes,  could  see  no  motion  in  the 
figure  on  the  bed.  What  was  it?  He  had  heard  a 
voice.  Rising  softly,  he  walked  to  the  bedside. 
Then  he  saw  that  he  had  not  been  mistaken ;  for  all 


THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN  237 

its  blue-veined  pallor  there  was  life  and  light  in  the 
face  of  his  cousin. 

"Tony!  "  he  cried  gently.  "  I'll  get  the  nurse, 
old  man." 

"  Stop !  "  The  voice,  though  faint,  was  deep, 
with  curious,  whispering  overtones.  The  lips 
scarcely  moved  to  form  the  sound. 

Reading  in  his  cousin's  eyes  a  desire,  Mr.  Copley 
came  close  to  him  and  sat  in  a  chair  by  his  pillow. 
'Yes,  Tony?" 

"  Jack."  With  painful  slowness,  halting,  seeking 
breath  to  form  each  syllable,  the  voice  struggled  on. 
"  Listen  .  .  .  secret .  .  .  you  .  .  .  should.  .  .  know 
...  E  ...  E  ...  E-ric  ...  is  ...  my  .  .  .  son." 

As  the  invalid's  breathing  became  thick,  the  voice 
ceased.  Mr.  Copley,  who  had  been  listening  with 
his  head  inclined,  sat  bolt  upright  in  his  chair.  His 
face  was  red,  his  eyes  wide;  on  his  knees  his  hands 
spread  out  in  astonishment. 

"  S  —  s  —  son?  "  he  stuttered. 

The  invalid  breathed  the  word  again.  Mr.  Cop- 
ley stared  at  him  with  the  most  profound  amaze- 
ment. Eric  Holland!  This  handsome  young  boy 
whom  Rosalind  admired! 

"  You  —  mean  — •.  not  Rolland's  son?  " 

"  Marie  ...  and  ...  I." 

;<  Does  he  know?" 

"  No  .  .  .  one  .  .  .  knows  .  .  .  except  .  .  .  Hol- 
land." 

"  I  see,"  Mr.  Copley  said,  although  he  did  not  see 
at  all.  There  was  a  pause,  during  which  the  in- 
valid's stertorous  breathing  quieted  somewhat. 

"  Help  him  .  .  .  Jack.  .  .  .  My  son.  .  .  . 
Where's  .  .  Rose?" 

Mr.  Copley  roused  himself. 


238  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  I  sent  her  out  with  Eric  to  get  the  air  for  a 
moment.  They've  scarcely  stirred  from  this  room 
in  four  days." 

When  Edouard  had  been  despatched  to  search  for 
them,  the  invalid  closed  his  eyes,  and  save  for  the 
movements  of  the  nurses,  the  familiar  stillness  was 
renewed.  Dumbfounded  by  what  he  had  heard, 
Mr.  Copley  remained  sitting  in  his  chair.  To  a  per- 
son of  his  conservative  temperament  the  disclosure 
was  decidedly  upsetting;  he  was  nearly  shocked. 
Whatever  would  his  wife  say?  And  what  must  he 
do  in  regard  to  Rosalind,  especially  if  she  really 
loved  Eric  and  wanted  to  marry  him?  Mr.  Copley 
frowned.  That  would  hardly  do.  He  shook  his 
head  a  great  number  of  times,  casting  an  occasional, 
dubious  glance  at  the  sharp,  pinched  profile  in  the 
bed.  This  second  chair  was  proving  far  less  com- 
fortable than  the  first. 

Twilight  stole  into  Louisburg  Square.  A  glow 
of  sunshine  still  lingered  on  the  housetops,  but  the 
day  was  done.  Silence  brooded  in  the  ragged  elms 
and  the  old  houses;  the  very  air  of  Heaven  itself 
seemed  heavy  with  quiet. 

Inside  the  panelled  chamber  of  Number  8  a  little 
day  was  ending,  too.  About  the  bed  the  family 
grouped  in  painful  helplessness,  with  eyes  looking 
their  sober  last  upon  the  sunken  face  on  the  pillow. 
Rosalind  held  one  of  the  old  man's  hands;  close  by 
her  stood  Eric.  The  old  eyes  were  fixed  on  them, 
but  the  voice  was  stilled.  A  calmness  lay  upon  the 
pale  lips  which  defied  all  earthly  tribulation.  Then 
the  glow  vanished  from  the  housetops  and  death, 
with  the  silent  sweep  of  a  great  cloud  fleeting  across 


[THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN  239 

the  face  of  Heaven,  entered  the  room  and  possessed 
the  body  of  the  old  man. 

Turning,  Rosalind  left  the  chamber  to  be  alone. 
With  aimless  steps  she  went  to  the  library,  and  there 
at  the  window  stood  looking  over  the  Basin  stretched 
out  far  below,  about  which  the  lights  of  the  Es- 
planade shone  like  a  chaplet  of  jewels.  Her 
thoughts  in  dulness,  she  remained  there  for  a  long 
time  without  moving.  The  night  was  come;  it  rose 
up  from  the  earth  on  all  sides  until  only  the  zenith 
of  Heaven  was  bright.  Tears  trembled  in  her  eyes. 
She  turned  from  the  window  and  found  Eric  beside 
her  in  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XX 

SOME  LETTERS,  AN  ENGAGEMENT,  AND  A  TELEGRAM 

TIME  passed  heavily  enough  for  Rosalind  dur- 
ing  the    first   weeks    after   her    godfather's 
death.     It  was  not  so  much  that  her  grief 
was  unbearable;  rather  it  seemed  that  she  had  lost 
from  her  life  an  integral  part.     In  some  ways  her 
godfather  had  been  to  her  more  of  an  institution 
than  a  personality.     To  suffer  such  a  loss  is  to  en- 
dure a  broad  and  general  sorrow. 

The  weeks  were  not  lacking  in  occupation  to  force 
her  thoughts  into  other  channels.  There  were  num- 
berless letters  to  be  read  and  answered  —  gloomy 
labour,  indeed.  If  it  is  hard  to  write  a  letter  of 
condolence,  it  is  much  harder  to  reply  to  one.  To 
overdo  sympathy  is  a  common  fault;  to  repress  ex- 
hibiting in  reply  the  wealth  of  one's  sorrow  without 
falling  into  phrases  so  worn  as  to  be  revolting  is 
incomparably  difficult.  Two  of  the  letters  at  least 
differed  from  the  usual  tenor  of  sympathy.  One 
was  written  from  New  Oreans  very  late  at 
night  and  sent  by  quick  delivery;  it  arrived  the  day 
after  the  funeral. 

May  3rd. 
Dear  Rosalind: 

I  have  just  heard  of  your  godfather's  death.  Was  it 
very  sudden?  I  had  not  known  he  was  worse.  You  un- 
derstand how  sorry  I  am.  I  know  well  you  loved  him  a 
very  great  deal.  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do,  any  way  in 

240 


SOME  LETTERS  241 

which  I  can  help  you,  be  sure  that  it  is  my  sincerest  aim  in 
life.  I  have  been  at  work  eleven  hours  to-day  and  can 
scarcely  think;  to-morrow  I  shall  write  to  you  again.  But 
take  my  deepest  sympathy  to-night.  Yours,  BEN. 

Being  so  very  like  its  author,  the  letter  struck 
Rosalind's  heart.  Brief,  dry,  unaffectionate  —  yet 
with  what  infinite  pains  conceived !  As  she  pictured 
him  writing  it,  his  great  hand  enveloping  the  pen- 
holder, his  brows  knit  in  the  struggle  between  his 
legal  vocabulary  and  the  kind  but  for  him  inex- 
pressible sentiments  in  his  heart,  there  were  grate- 
ful tears  in  her  eyes. 

The  other  letter,  which  arrived  a  week  later,  bore 
on  its  envelope,  across  which  scurried  a  violet  super- 
scription, a  New  York  postmark.  Olfactory  inspec- 
tion betrayed  a  perfume.  After  turning  the  letter 
over  curiously  for  some  time,  Rosalind  suddenly 
realised  that  it  came  from  Patricia. 

RITZ  HOTEL,  May  twelfth. 

Oh,  Rosey-Rosey-Rosey,  I'm  a  million  times  sorry,  dear- 
est. Just  up  from  the  country,  been  playing  divine  polo 
on  the  Island,  when  Florrie  told  me  about  your  godfather. 
I  hadn't  heard  before.  You  aren't  still  mad  with  me,  Rosey? 
Old  songs  are  the  best. 

I  don't  know  what  to  say  and  Florrie  is  calling  me  to 
stop.  I'm  staying  with  her  here.  And  busy!  Darling, 
I'm  in  the  high  speed  from  morning  on;  and  Florrie's  bed 
hour  is  something  we  don't  speak  about. 

Cheer  up,  Rosey.  Look  at  the  sun  and  the  shadows  fall 
behind. 

Your  old  —  PATSY. 

P.S.  There  are  some  exquisite  mourning  things  at  Ce- 
cile's!  Can't  I  get  you  some?  I  love  to  shop  and  haven't 
a  cent.  If  I  can  do  anything  for  you,  write  me  here.  I'm 
going  to  stay  with  Florrie  as  long  as  I  can  before  going 


242  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

to  Washington,  but  she  drives  me  insensee  within  a  week. 
I  wish  you  could  hear  her  dance  —  actually ! !  And  she  says 
the  most  awful  things  about  her  friends,  too.  So  long, 
darling—  P.  C. 

With  a  sad  smile  twisting  her  lips  Rosalind  laid 
aside  the  odorous  note.  Who  but  Patricia  would 
express  sympathy  so?  Who  but  she  so  incoherently 
mix  frankness  with  hyperbole?  Of  late  Rosalind 
had  forgotten  her  old  friend;  to  have  her  thus 
brought  to  mind  was  both  bitter  and  amusing. 

The  Copley  family  had  migrated  to  the  country 
at  the  invalid's  death,  and  there  Eric  had  joined 
them.  Sherborne  in  mid-May  is  not  to  be  with- 
stood. A  grave  serenity  stole  into  Rosalind's  heart, 
a  sweet  calmness  which  tempered  sorrow  and  made 
her  in  her  mourning  doubly  beautiful.  Further- 
more her  untroubled  association  with  Eric  brought 
great  happiness  and  comfort.  To  gallop  side  by 
side  along  hedged  country  paths,  the  turf  of  which, 
untracked  by  many  feet,  sprang  beneath  the  speed- 
ing hoofs;  to  walk  through  the  shadows  of  unde- 
ciduous  groves,  where  still  the  cool,  damp  air  of 
night  clung  undispelled  by  sunlight  about  the  mossy 
trunks  of  pines;  to  stand  upon  the  crest  of  some  steep 
hill  and  gaze  about  the  gentle  panorama  spread  be- 
low, far  fairer  in  the  clear  light  of  the  early-risen 
sun  than  in  the  majestic  dazzling  of  noon  —  these 
comprised  the  simple  and  lasting  joys  of  life.  At 
such  times  Rosalind's  sorrow  seemed  a  cloudy  back- 
ground, and  in  the  absorption  of  present  loveliness 
she  let  a  solace  wind  into  her  heart.  After  all, 
with  Eric  by  her  side,  life  was  hers.  The  essential 
though  often  unconscious  desire  of  all  mortals  is  not 


SOME  LETTERS  243 

for  some  one  they  can  be  loved  by,  but  for  some  one 
whom  they  can  love. 

The  day  on  which  Patricia's  letter  arrived  marked 
another  departure  of  Eric,  this  time  in  the  train  of 
Mr.  Swelfront  to  a  great  architectural  congress  in 
Philadelphia.  The  invitation  was  such  a  golden 
opportunity  for  Eric's  advancement  that  Rosalind 
bravely  swallowed  her  disappointment  and  smiled  on 
his  departure.  In  sorrow  one  is  doubly  generous  to 
those  one  really  loves. 

And  so  he  went  away  and  she  was  left  to  ride 
alone.  Often  in  the  days  which  followed  the  mem- 
ory of  his  voice  sang  strongly  in  her  heart.  She 
could  not  pass  a  certain  tree,  gnarled  with  age  and 
battered  by  the  winds,  which  stood  upon  the  sum- 
mit of  a  smooth-browed  hill,  without  remembering 
how  they  had  sat  together  on  its  mossy  roots  and 
Eric  had  told  her  of  his  boyhood.  She  had  loved 
the  story.  Each  small,  elfin  trick  of  youth,  half 
laughingly  revealed,  was  dear  to  her.  She  conjured 
up  bright  pictures  of  his  boyhood  friends,  feeling 
a  strange  jealousy  that  she  had  been  nothing  to 
him  then,  unknown  and  unknowing.  They  had 
passed  each  other  in  strange  lands,  dwelt  at  one 
time  in  the  same  city;  they  must  have  walked  upon 
the  same  street,  gone  to  the  same  theatre  perhaps 
in  those  past  days  of  Paris,  and  yet  never  knew 
it.  That  he  had  had  a  life  apart  from  hers  seemed 
fit  subject  for  jealousy.  As  for  these  friends  of 
whose  love  he  spoke  so  brightly,  they  did  not  ap- 
proximate her  devotion,  she  told  herself,  while 
she  begged  to  hear  more.  And  by  a  silver  brook 
that  wound  slenderly  through  a  meadowland,  ob- 
served only  by  the  beady  eyes  of  a  pale-throated 


244  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

shrew-mouse,  he  had  told  her  of  a  Parisian  girl, 
Melanie,  the  queen  of  his  youthful  heart.  At  his 
words  she  had  stopped  suddenly,  her  hand  upon  his 
arm.  Who  was  this  Melanie?  Was  she  pretty? 
Was  she  of  his  age?  She  had  laughed  in  relief 
to  find  the  haunting  name  a  mere  memory.  But 
ever  as  she  wandered  by  the  brooklet's  side  it  mur- 
mured "  Melanie,  Melanie  "  in  her  ear,  as  swift  He- 
brus  once  lisped  out  "  Eurydice."  And  then  there 
was  an  arbour  by  the  house,  where  in  the  warm 
night  before  his  going  they  had  stood  together. 
The  moon  had  moved,  but  motionless  they  re- 
mained. Shyly  Eric  had  talked  of  great  ambitions, 
of  what  he  hoped  to  do.  Loving  ambition  in  a 
man,  she  gloried  to  find  him  so  possessed  of  it.  His 
breath  had  been  upon  her  cheek,  his  hand  near  hers 
where  it  fingered  a  rose-leaf  on  the  trellis;  and 
she  had  stifled  with  yearning  and  felt  her  heart 
melt. 

The  death  of  Mr.  Quincy's  old  friend  brought 
him  back  from  his  refuge  in  Bermuda  for  a  visit  at 
Sherborne,  where  as  usual  he  proved  to  Rosalind  a 
great  diversion.  Finding  himself  the  chief  execu- 
tor of  Mr.  Singleton's  great  estate,  he  plunged  into 
his  duties  with  his  customary  zeal  and  assumption 
of  importance.  The  buoyant  child  surviving  in  his 
manhood  found  great  gratification  in  his  novel  in- 
dustry. It  was  his  delight  to  carry  sheaves  of  paper 
about  with  him,  to  lay  them  down  and  finger  them, 
to  put  on  his  eye-glasses  or  twiddle  them  on  a  chain, 
and  to  introduce  an  occasional  "  whereas  "  or  "  de 
minimis  non  curat  lex  "  into  his  polite  conversation. 
The  very  mention  of  Messrs.  Foolscap,  Parrypoint, 
and  Scribble,  to  whom  he  referred  as  "  his  solici- 


SOME  LETTERS  245 

tors,"  caused  him  to  swell  with  importance.  In 
short,  for  a  man  who  had  never  done  any  business, 
he  soon  learned  to  adopt  to  perfection  the  airs  and 
attributes  of  the  legal  profession. 

One  noon  Rosalind  strolled  slowly  up  to  the 
house  from  the  gardens  which  she  loved  so  well, 
her  arms  filled  with  early  flowers.  A  striped  awn- 
ing flaunted  over  the  trim  shrubbery  on  the  terrace 
above  her.  It  was  a  lazy,  lovely  day;  already  the 
murmuring  hush  of  afternoon  dreamed  upon  the 
air.  Drooping  above  the  old-fashioned  house,  a 
huge  elm  seemed  to  expand  in  the  pleasant  warmth 
and  in  its  hazy  branches  fluttered  the  restless  wings 
of  little  birds.  Under  the  awning,  where  Mrs. 
Copley  sat  in  a  white  garden  chair,  were  also  her 
brother  and  husband. 

"Why,  Uncle  Jo- Jo,"  cried  Rosalind,  "what's 
brought  you  out  of  town  so  early  to-day?  " 

"  It's  happened!  "  cried  her  mother  with  a  laugh. 

"What?" 

"  The  Governor  — " 
'You  mean?" 

"  I'm  a  general  now !  "  replied  her  uncle  simply. 

"  I  don't  believe  it!     Tell  me  the  whole  story." 

"  I'm  still  rather  nervous,"  began  Mr.  Quincy. 
"  You  see  I  was  at  Foolscap's  with  the  will,  when 
a  telephone  message  —  ahem !  —  came  for  me.  It 
was  the  Governor's  secretary.  You  can  fancy  it 
made  quite  an  impression  in  the  office.  Appoint- 
ment at  ten-thirty.  Down  I  went  to  the  State 
House  in  a  taxicab.  Ante-room  crowded;  nothing 
to  me !  In  I  walk,  cynosure  of  all  eyes.  The  Gov- 
ernor was  —  ahem !  —  delightful,  reassuring,  confi- 
dential. We  chatted  for  a  few  moments  on  po- 
litical matters  and  our  views  were  singularly  coin- 


246  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

cident."  Expressing  this  coincidence  with  a  sweep- 
ing gesture,  Mr.  Quincy  blandly  proceeded.  "  He 
asked  me  in  a  few  simple  words.  '  Quincy,'  he  said, 
'  will  you  serve  on  my  Staff?  '  What  could  I  say? 
'  Your  Excellency,'  I  replied,  '  I  will  —  and  with 
pleasure !  '  '  You  will  be  a  general,'  he  went  on. 
4  You  may  have  your  tailor  make  your  uniform. 
That's  the  most  important  part!  '  he  added  —  jok- 
ingly, of  course !  We  shook  hands  and  I  left  him. 
General  Joseph  Quincy.  Rather  neat,  Rose?  I 
went  directly  to  the  Sarcophagus  Club.  Quite  a 
day's  work!  " 

"  Oh !  Uncle  Jo-Jo,  I  do  congratulate  you. 
Think  of  being  a  general !  Does  the  uniform  have 
lots  of  gold  braid?  I'm  dying  to  see  it !  " 

"  It's  coming  out  on  Saturday.  We'll  try  it  on 
then,  by  Jove !  " 

On  Saturday  afternoon  the  uniform  did  indeed  ar- 
rive. To  struggle  into  it  Mr.  Quincy  retired  to 
the  upper  regions,  where  by  a  cunning  contrivance 
involving  a  cheval  glass  and  a  bureau  mirror  he 
was  enabled  to  adjust  the  shining  garment  to  a 
nicety.  Some  half  an  hour  later  he  strutted  back 
to  the  terrace,  smothered  in  epaulettes  and  gold 
cord,  every  inch  a  general.  Mingled  exclamations 
burst  from  the  family. 

"Jo-Jo!" 

'  You  look  like  the  Brazilian  Ambassador ! 

"  Or  the  carriage-opener  at  the  Opera !  "  added 
Mr.  Copley. 

'  Joseph  and  the  coat  of  many  colours !  " 

"  I  think  I  look  thin  in  it,"  remarked  the  little 
man  in  a  voice  which  courted  assent.  He  set  about 
revolving  like  a  mannequin,  stretching  out  his  arms 
so  that  the  family  could  view  him  on  all  sides.  En- 


SOME  LETTERS  247 

grossed  by  these  unmilitary  antics,  all  failed  to  ob- 
serve the  approach  of  two  ladies  over  the  lawn.  In 
the  middle  of  his  fourth  revolution,  Mr.  Quincy 
caught  sight  of  them.  With  a  horrified  cry  he 
stopped  short,  his  face  a  picture  of  dismay.  It  was 
too  late  to  flee :  like  a  true  general  he  must  face  the 
guns. 

"  I  hope,"  ventured  Miss  Hepplethwaite  (for  it 
was  she  and  her  sister) ,  "  we  are  not  in  the  way." 

"  Not  at  all."  Mrs.  Copley  struggled  with  a 
laugh.  "  Do  sit  down  and  have  some  tea." 

"  It's  Uncle  Joseph's  new  uniform,"  explained 
Rosalind  to  the  younger  sister.  "  You've  heard?  " 
'  Yes,  indeed." 

"  We  came  partly  in  hopes  of  seeing  your  brother, 
Elizabeth,  and  felicitating  him  on  his  honours." 

The  two  sisters  favoured  the  new  general,  ablaze 
with  embarrassment  for  once,  with  congratulatory 
glances. 

"  You're  very  kind,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Copley. 
"Aren't  they,  Jo-Jo?" 

Mr.  Quincy  assented  with  deep  feeling. 

"  I  like  the  uniform,"  said  the  younger  sister, 
glancing  through  her  lorgnette. 

"  It  might  be  more  chaste,"  remarked  the  elder. 

Mr.  Quincy  squirmed  under  this  double  inspec- 
tion. 

"  Chaste,  ma'am?  "  he  fumed.  '  You  talk  about 
me  as  if  I  were  a  ballet  girl." 

The  Misses  Hepplethwaite  were  shocked  and 
rustled  in  their  chairs,  but  the  trend  of  the  conver- 
sation was  diverted.  Relieved  of  their  inquisitorial 
glances,  Mr.  Quincy  permitted  himself  to  be  flat- 
tered. After  a  time  he  even  ventured  out  in  the 
sunset  light  to  examine  the  garden  with  the  younger 


248  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

sister.  Their  return  was  long  delayed.  The  shad- 
ows lengthened,  faded,  vanished;  twilight  crept 
across  the  fields  and  smothered  them  in  darkness. 
The  ragged  outline  of  trees  loomed  against  the  eve- 
ning sky,  a  suffused  green  on  the  horizon,  like  light 
shining  through  clear  ocean  depths,  but  mounting 
to  dark  sapphire  at  the  zenith.  Just  above  the  tree- 
tops  sailed  the  crescent  moon  in  company  with  the 
great,  bright  evening  star,  first  wanderers  in  the 
celestial  darkness.  After  the  tea  things  had  been 
removed,  the  conversation  despite  Mrs.  Copley's 
noble  efforts  lagged.  The  quick-darting  flight  of 
bats  across  the  lower  sky  marked  the  inception  of 
night.  A  train  whistle  hooted  in  the  distance;  near 
at  hand  a  premature  cricket  shrilled.  But  the  gen- 
eral and  his  companions  still  lingered  in  the  garden. 

"  Something  must  have  happened,"  ventured  the 
elder  sister  nervously. 

Something  had  happened,  but  none  of  the  four 
under  the  awning  knew  of  its  nature  until  after  the 
Misses  Hepplethwaite  had  been  sent  home  in  the 
Renault,  and  Mr.  Quincy,  still  in  his  uniform,  was 
smoking  with  great  puffs  a  very  long  and  very  black 
cigar. 

"  Jo-Jo,  don't  fidget  so !  "  reproved  his  sister, 
as  the  little  man  picked  up  a  book  for  the  tenth  time 
since  coffee  and  laid  it  aside.  "  You've  been  like 
this  for  hours.  You  haven't  got  anything  on  your 
mind,  have  you?  You  haven't  committed  any 
crime?  Look  at  him,  Jack!  " 

'  No  crime,  Beth,  no." 

'  Well,  do  behave  like  a  Christian  then !  Say 
something." 

;<  Why  doesn't  Rose  get  married?"  asked  Mr. 
Quincy  with  sudden  irrelevance. 


SOME  LETTERS  249 

Rosalind  bent  her  eyes  over  the  paper  which  she 
was  reading  as  if  engrossed  in  some  passage. 

"Why  doesn't  she  get  married?"  Mr.  Quincy 
repeated  in  a  louder  voice. 

"  Is  that  what  you're  nervous  about?  "  asked  his 
sister. 

"  No,  but  I  believe  in  marriage.  It's  a  good 
thing !  Early  and  often !  " 

"  You  haven't  practised  that  yourself.  It's  never 
too  late,  you  know." 

'  You're  right  1  "  Mr.  Quincy  took  an  enormous 
puff  at  his  cigar. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  do  it,  Jo-Jo  ?  You're  only 
fifty-five." 

"  I'm  not  yet  fifty!  "  responded  the  general  with 
indignation. 

"  It  doesn't  matter.  You  just  get  married  and 
stop  talking  to  Rose  about  it." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall,"  said  Mr.  Quincy,  picking  up 
the  book  for  the  eleventh  time.  "  I  believe  in  de- 
votion. None  of  your  love  at  first  sight  for  me, 
but  love  that  weathers  time  and  storms.  Perhaps 
I  shall  get  married." 

"  Nnnnnever !  "  said  his  sister  with  emphasis. 

"  Perhaps  I'm  engaged  now." 

"  Tosh,  Jo- Jo." 

"  Very  well,  I  — " 

"  You  weren't  engaged  yesterday." 

"  No,  but  that  —  ahem  !  —  doesn't  signify  that 
I  mayn't  be  —  ahem  !  —  to-day !  " 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Copley  clapped  her  hands  to- 
gether, her  pretty  mouth  round  as  an  o.  On  her 
lips  trembled  delicious  laughter. 

"  Do  you  mean,  Jo- Jo,  that  after  all  you've  said 
about  Joan  Hepplethwaite  you're  — " 


250  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  I  never  said  anything  about  her !  " 

"  Uncle  Jo-Jo !     Not  in  the  garden  ?  " 

"  In  his  uniform,  too,"  cried  Mr.  Copley. 

"  Oh,  Jo- Jo,  you  poor  lamb !  "  Mrs.  Copley  ran 
to  her  brother,  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
kissed  him  squarely  on  the  lips.  "  No  sooner  a 
general  than  captured !  " 

"  What  did  you  say?  "  asked  Mr.  Copley. 

"Don't  be  silly!"  said  Mr.  Quincy  with  some 
heat.  "There,  there,  Beth!  You'd  better  sit 
down  now!  Can't  a  man  get  engaged  without  his 
whole  family  biting  him?  " 

"  I  never  thought  you'd  have  the  courage,  Jo- 
Jo!" 

"  I  don't  believe  he  did,"  laughed  Mr.  Copley. 
"  She  did  it  for  him." 

"  She  did  not ! "  expostulated  Mr.  Quincy. 
"  Nothing  of  the  kind !  We  were  out  among  the 
nasturtiums  and  it  —  it  sort  of  came  over  me.  It 
was  a  lonely  life;  there's  no  love  in  the  Sarcophagus 
Club.  Time  I  settled  down." 

"  I  hope  you'll  be  very  happy,  Uncle  Jo- Jo." 

"  Thank  you,  Rose,  love.  One  member  of  the 
family  can  speak  pleasantly,  I'm  glad  to  see." 
Mr.  Quincy  looked  defiance  at  his  sister.  "  I  shall 
be  very  happy,  very.  I  intend  to  be  master  in  my 
house.  No  foolishness.  This  marriage  is  built  on 
true  love.  I  have  served,  like  Jacob,  seven  years 
for  Rachel  — " 

"  Be  careful  you  don't  get  Leah  instead!  "  broke 
in  Mrs.  Copley. 

Her  brother  favoured  her  with  an  indignant 
glance. 

"  My  seven  years  have  passed  as  so  many  days; 
now,  having  tested  my  affection,  assured  of  its 


SOME  LETTERS  251 

strength,  I  fold  my  wife  to  my  bosom.  There  has 
been  no  haste;  I  have  been  firm  and  have  refused 
to  let  my  heart  run  off  with  me.  I  must  admit," 
said  Mr.  Quincy  modestly,  "  that  Joan  needed  per- 
suasion and  yielded  only  to  the  arguments  of  com- 
mon sense.  I  was  masterful  —  one  has  to  be  a  man 
with  women.  But  that  is  all  forgotten  now,  and 
she  has  begged  me  never  to  remember  that  she  once 
hesitated  to  accept  me." 

Recalling  how  her  uncle  had  sought  to  avoid  the 
Misses  Hepplethwaites,  how  he  had  fled  even  to 
Bermuda  to  escape  his  prospective  bride,  and  now 
how  he  sought  to  persuade  himself  that  it  was  he 
after  all  who  had  brought  about  the  match,  Rosa- 
lind could  not  refrain  from  bursting  into  laughter. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  her  uncle  suspi- 
ciously. 

"  I  was  only  thinking  of  Bermuda,"  innocently 
answered  Rosalind. 

"  That  was  a  test,"  replied  the  general  very  se- 
verely. "  Knowing  that  she  was  young  and  im- 
pressionable, I  thought  it  might  be  unfair  to  ask 
her  without  trial.  But  I  could  not  bear  it;  I  came 
home  and  conquered." 

Rosalind  contented  herself  with  an  "  Oh !  "  and 
went  upstairs  to  dream  of  her  uncle  and  Miss  Hep- 
plethwaite  settling  down  to  light  housekeeping  in 
the  Sarcophagus  Club.  To  their  establishment  the 
presence  of  the  future  Mrs.  Q.'s  elder  sister  added 
that  something  more  which  marital  felicity  seldom 
countenances.  The  tragic  conclusion  of  the  dream 
was  a  vision  of  her  uncle  wandering  about  the  streets 
of  Boston  in  search  of  his  former  masterfulness  and 
wailing  out  the  plaintive  cry  of  lo,  "  Eleleu,  oh, 
Eleleuf" 


252  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

On  the  next  morning  Rosalind  received  a  letter 
from  Eric.  It  was  the  first  time  that  any  written 
word  had  passed  between  them.  With  a  great  sud- 
den warmth  in  her  body  she  pressed  the  little  en- 
velope to  her  lips,  scanned  it  eagerly,  turned  it  over, 
followed  the  tracery  of  the  ink,  examined  the  post- 
mark, made  as  much  of  the  innocent  paper  as  if  it 
had  been  the  manual  of  every  gift  and  virtue  in 
the  world.  The  music  of  fantastic  melodies  rose 
irresistibly  in  her  heart  and  smothered  her.  A  de- 
sire for  the  free  air  of  Heaven,  for  some  quiet, 
sunny  spot  hallowed  by  silence  and  far  from  possi- 
ble interruption  sweeping  over  her,  she  hurried 
from  the  house.  Across  the  smooth,  green  lawn 
she  sped,  through  the  trim  hedge  that  marked  its 
confines,  into  the  first  pasture,  over  a  moss-grown 
fence,  and  so  through  the  second  pasture.  At  the 
brook  she  stopped ;  still  it  whispered  "  Melanie  " 
in  a  rustling  cadence.  A  lovely  spot,  but  here  in- 
terruptions might  disturb  the  perfect  silence  she  de- 
sired. With  a  reassuring  glance  at  the  letter  she 
traversed  the  meadow,  lying  like  a  garment  of  soft 
Oriental  stuff  in  the  morning  light.  So  gentle  was 
the  sun  it  seemed  to  soothe  the  tired  world  and 
make  a  harmony  with  Heaven.  As  she  walked 
slowly  along,  head  erect,  heart  singing,  listening  to 
the  airy  voices  of  the  wind  which  syllable  a  lan- 
guage well  understood  if  but  the  heart  be  right,  an 
early  bobolink  flew  up  from  the  grass  with  his  rich, 
bubbling  melody,  and  she  laughed  aloud  for  the  joy 
of  the  song. 

Rosalind  penetrated  almost  to  the  distant  river 
before  her  quest  was  ended.  Upon  a  rise  of  ground, 
a  kind  of  knoll,  she  at  length  descried  the  place 
of  places  most  perfect  to  her  mind.  An  old  syca- 


SOME  LETTERS  253 

more  stretched  its  knotted  fingers  above  her  in  the 
sunlight;  about  its  roots  the  grass  was  of  imperisha- 
ble green  and  warm  from  lying  in  the  early  sun. 
It  was  on  this  knoll  that  a  constellation  of  wild 
narcissus  scattered  its  delicate  perfume  to  the 
winds.  Quickly  mounting  the  little  rise,  she  seated 
herself  at  the  foot  of  the  great  tree  in  silent  ad- 
miration. To  see  this  beauty  in  a  moment  so 
ecstatic  was  too  see  a  double  beauty.  From  the 
starry  narcissus  at  her  feet  to  the  white,  distant 
spire  of  a  country  church  the  world  smiled  up  at 
her.  Fascinated  and  tremulous,  she  deftly  opened 
the  letter  so  as  not  to  injure  the  envelope,  and  read 
eagerly. 

May  nineteenth. 
Dear  Rosalind: 

You  will  be  glad  to  know  I  have  had  a  most  interesting 
time.  The  Congress,  like  all  congresses,  was  a  magnificent 
failure,  but  I  have  met  a  great  many  distinguished  men  and 
heard  endless  speeches.  My  being  a  kind  of  equerry  for  Mr. 
Swelfront  has  spread  the  opinion  that  at  the  least  I  am  a 
member  of  the  Institut  de  France.  That  is  delightful.  I 
will  tell  you  all  about  it  when  I  get  back. 

Philadelphia  is  unexciting.  It  is  not  as  quaint  as  Bos- 
ton or  as  monstrous  as  New  York,  but  I  find  the  women 
very  pretty.  The  tinge  of  southern  accent  delights  me. 
Yesterday  the  Congress  ended  with  every  one  talked  out. 
I  went  to  Havre  de  Grace  for  the  horse  races.  I 
used  to  visit  Longchamps  and  Auteuil  a  great  deal  when  I 
was  younger,  and  once  made  eight  hundred  francs.  I  do 
not  think  Americans  care  for  horses  any  more  than  the 
French.  In  America  you  go  to  bet;  in  France  you  go  to 
look  at  the  latest  fashions. 

I  am  sorry  I  have  not  written  earlier,  but  my  letters  are 
not  good  and  I  have  been  busy  every  minute.  Did  you 
expect  me  to  return  directly  after  the  Congress?  I  am  eager 


254  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

to  stay  here  longer  as  there  is  much  to  see.  I  shall  telegraph 
when  I  decide.  Here  I  have  discovered  Harry  Farr,  who 
was  at  the  Beaux  Arts  with  me.  Over  there  he  was  the 
laziest  boy  in  the  atelier  and  the  gayest  on  the  boulevard. 
Marriage  has  changed  all  that.  Now  he  is  only  gay  at  the 
office.  He  says  that  he  spends  all  his  time  being  lazy  with 
the  baby.  His  wife  is  lovely  —  Susie  Harte,  perhaps  you 
know  her?  It  makes  me  want  to  get  married  myself! 

I  received  a  letter  from  my  father  yesterday.  He  is  at 
his  villa  in  Cadenabbia  and  wants  to  know  when  I  am 
sailing.  I  wrote  him  that  I  had  not  made  up  my  mind. 
Perhaps  it  will  be  necessary  for  him  to  come  over  and  take 
me  back  by  force.  I  have  become  very  much  attached  to 
Boston;  I  feel  at  home  there.  I  even  have  that  feeling  for 
Beacon  Street  which  all  Bostonians  entertain,  and  when  you 
begin  to  love  streets,  it's  a  serious  matter!  Then  you  have 
been  so  wonderful  to  me!  I  have  never  thanked  you;  I 
cannot;  but  with  every  bit  of  my  heart  I  feel  your  sweet- 
ness. It  is  not  easy  to  come  among  strangers  and  so  soon 
find  a  home.  It  will  be  a  thousand  times  harder  to  leave 
after  having  found  it.  We  have  been  very  close,  you 
and  I,  Rosalind.  Since  Mr.  Singleton's  death  our  friend- 
ship has  seemed  even  more  intimate.  Do  you  remember  our 
walk  along  the  Esplanade  that  afternoon?  It  has  lingered 
in  my  memory.  Some  day  I  hope  we  may  finish  that  con- 
versation. I  trust  you  are  not  lonely  at  Sherborne  now.  I 
know  you  will  not  be,  though,  for  you  have  no  end  of  friends 
to  amuse  you.  I  am  almost  alone  here,  and  I  think  of  you. 

I  hear  bells  striking  two  o'clock.  From  where  I  write 
I  can  look  out  across  the  still  city.  How  bare  and  quiet  it 
is  in  the  smokeless  air!  The  vast  thing  seems  asleep.  Me 
voila  bien  fatigue ;  je  vous  souhaite,  Rose,  bon  soir  et  rien 
que  des  beaux  reves. 

Votre  ami  — 

ERIC. 

There  was  a  tear  in  each  of  Rosalind's  eyes  as 
she  slowly  laid  the  letter  in  her  lap;  the  world  had 


SOME  LETTERS  255 

become  too  beautiful  to  look  upon.  She  thought 
that  she  had  never  read  so  sweet,  so  diverting  a 
letter.  To  contrast  it  with  Benjamin's  was  nat- 
ural; and  this  made  her  laugh  softly  as  she  pressed 
the  paper  to  her  lips.  It  was  hers,  this  wonderful 
letter,  hers  to  be  treasured,  hers  to  be  re-read  in 
the  vastness  of  night,  hers  to  be  a  bulwark  against 
future  doubts.  With  an  overflowing  heart  she 
threw  herself  back  upon  the  warm  grass,  so  that 
the  narcissuses  danced  above  her  golden  hair  on 
their  slender  stems.  A  while  she  contemplated  the 
sun  through  half-closed  lids  as  it  flamed  behind  the 
branches  of  the  sycamore,  mastered  by  the  supreme 
calmness  which  one  feels  after  work  well  done  or 
when  one  has  at  last  arrived  at  some  long-dreamed- 
of  resting-place.  She  was  ready  to  cry  with  Faust 
to  the  fleeting  moment :  "  Ferweile  dock,  du  hist  so 
schonf" 

It  was  hard  to  quit  painting  thought-pictures,  but 
at  length  she  arose  and  slowly  made  her  way  back 
to  the  house.  To  leave  the  shining  knoll  with  its 
starry-white  flowers  and  vivid  green  seemed  a  de- 
parture from  Paradise.  One  by  one  the  beauties 
dropped  away.  As  she  stepped  into  the  house,  the 
dust  and  tedium  of  the  world  again  were  with  her. 

"  A  telegram,  Miss  Rose." 

She  felt  in  her  heart  that  it  was  from  Eric,  and 
moved  to  a  window. 

Gone  to  Washington.     Buildings  and 

Patricia.     Will   write.  ERIC. 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  appreciate  the  words. 
Then  she  remembered  that  Patricia  had  written  of 
visiting  Washington,  and,  marvelling  at  the  effront- 


256  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

ery  of  the  thing,  read  the  telegram  again.  Hot 
anger  rushed  into  her  heart  and  in  a  swift  revul- 
sion she  flung  Eric's  letter  defiantly  into  a  waste- 
basket.  Could  such  a  change  be  possible?  She 
felt  insulted,  made  sport  of;  her  ecstatic  dreams 
of  the  moment  before  now  seemed  mockery.  The 
telegram  in  a  thousand  fragments  followed  the  let- 
ter. Throwing  herself  in  a  chair,  she  stared  mood- 
ily at  a  man  in  dirty  blue  dragging  a  hose  across 
the  lawn;  when  he  tripped  in  its  serpentine  coils, 
she  laughed  resentfully.  How  indifferent  and 
cross-grained  the  world  had  become!  The  birds 
outside  the  window  chattered  out  of  tune  and  their 
notes  mixed  on  the  air  with  sounds  of  subdued  but 
cross  words.  Irritated  that  another  be  angry,  she 
flung  her  hands  to  her  ears.  We  are  all  alike  in 
our  disappointments;  since  we  must  vent  our  spleen 
on  something,  it  is  as  provoking  to  have  those  about 
us  angry  as  happy.  At  odds  with  herself  and  with 
the  world,  Rosalind  pushed  aside  her  chair  and 
strode  away.  At  the  door  she  paused  with  cloudy 
brow.  Then,  half  indignant  at  her  own  weakness, 
she  returned  and  bent  over  the  partly-filled  waste- 
basket. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

CULMINATION 

UP~~1  "~^HAT  will  finish  the  business  as  far  as 
you  and  Mr.  Quincy  are  concerned.  I  ob- 
-••  tained  his  final  signature  yesterday." 

Mr.  Foolscap  was  speaking.  Shuffling  all  the 
papers  on  his  desk  together  as  one  shuffles  a  pack 
of  cards,  he  glanced  over  his  eyeglasses  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  relief.  The  senior  member  of  Fools- 
cap, Parrypoint,  and  Scribble  had  a  fat  face,  in 
colour  and  texture  so  much  like  calfskin  that  it 
might  have  been  bound  uniform  with  any  of  the 
legal  volumes  which  crammed  the  deep  shelves  of 
his  office.  With  both  their  stolidity  and  their  con- 
servative colouring,  it  was  a  good  face  behind 
which  to  obscure  much  knowledge  and  all  emotion. 
Faces  are  sometimes  fortunes.  To  be  Prime  Min- 
ister of  England  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  was  once 
willing  to  ape  the  manners  and  looks  of  a  stupid 
fop;  but  to  be  the  most  fashionable  and  successful 
lawyer  in  Boston  Mr.  Foolscap  had  only  to  ape 
himself.  Behind  his  impenetrable  countenance  he 
might  evolve  the  most  profound  thoughts,  yet  pass 
in  the  eye  of  the  world  for  a  know-nothing. 

Mr.  Copley  and  Mr.  Quincy  had  been  appointed 
executors  of  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton's  will.  Know- 
ing that  alone  they  could  do  nothing  and  together 
less,  they  had  agreed  that  if  the  estate  was  ever 
to  be  executed  Foolscap  had  better  execute  it.  So 
execute  it  Foolscap  did,  while  Mr.  Copley,  who 

257 


258  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

never  on  any  account  dabbled  in  business,  signed 
one  or  two  necessary  papers  and  his  brother-in-law 
created  a  great  deal  of  smoke  out  of  his  duties, 
though  precious  little  fire.  In  consequence  of  this 
Mr.  Quincy  was  continually  getting  the  smoke  in  his 
own  eyes  and  in  those  of  every  one  else  concerned. 
However  amusing  in  the  Sarcophagus  Club  beside 
a  sea-coal  blaze,  he  was  not  a  success  by  the  legal 
fireside.  Almost  a  breath  of  relief,  therefore, 
stirred  on  Mr.  Foolscap's  lips  as  he  spoke  the  fore- 
going words. 

"  The  estate,  when  everything  is  finally  settled, 
will  be  almost  two  millions,  then?  " 

"  More,  Mr.  Copley,  more.  Your  daughter  has 
a  rare  inheritance." 

"  You  say  it  is  all  hers,  apart  from  the  annuity  to 
Holland  ?" 

"  Absolutely." 

Mr.  Copley  looked  absently  out  of  the  opened 
window.  A  great  deal  of  money!  The  rumble 
and  roar  of  the  city  swelled  up  through  the  opened 
windows  and  broke  against  the  fat  calfskin  volumes. 

;' What  about  illegitimacy?"  Mr.  Copley  asked, 
his  brow  suddenly  wrinkled. 

Mr.  Foolscap  bumped  his  knee  against  the  desk. 

"Did  you—?     Did  I—  ?" 

Mr.  Copley's  red  face  turned  a  shade  redder. 
He  had  not  meant  to  phrase  the  question  in  such  a 
way,  but  it  had  slipped  out  of  his  thought  into 
speech  in  all  its  baldness. 

"  A-hum !  "  He  arose  brusquely  from  his  chair 
and  moved  to  the  window. 

'  You  startled  me.  I  thought  you  said  —  ille- 
gitimacy." 


CULMINATION  259 

"I  did." 

Silence.  As  he  stood  looking  down  upon  the 
noisy  street,  Mr.  Copley  felt  uneasy  and  vaguely 
dissatisfied  with  himself:  Foolscap  never  spoke  in- 
advertently. 

"  Will  Mr.  Quincy  be  married  soon?  "  The  law- 
yer broke  a  silence  becoming  painfully  long;  he  had 
no  intention  of  making  so  valuable  a  client  uncom- 
fortable. 

"  I  dare  say.  He  doesn't  know  where  he  is ! 
Perfectly  depraved  over  his  clothes  and  things." 
Mr.  Copley  moved  to  the  door.  "  I  think  he  finds 
getting  married  even  more  diverting  than  being  ex- 
ecutor. Fickle,  I  call  it.  Good-bye." 

Deep  in  thought,  he  descended  the  steps  of  the 
law  office.  His  slip  of  the  tongue  some  minutes 
before  testified  to  what  had  been  his  mind's  chief 
activity  since  Mr.  Singleton  Singleton's  death.  The 
secret  revealed  to  him  at  that  time  had  been  more 
than  a  piece  of  information;  as  we  have  seen,  the 
surprise  had  been  both  unpleasant  and  shocking. 
Mr.  Copley  was  not  a  prude  by  any  means.  At  the 
Sarcophagus  Club  any  designation  rather  than  that 
might  have  been  applied  —  and  where,  if  not  at 
a  man's  club,  is  one  to  learn  his  true  character? 
It  was  not  so  much  that  he  was  outraged  from  the 
social  point  of  view.  Men  of  his  position  in  the 
world,  with  great  wealth  and  no  application,  long 
before  they  are  forty  lose  their  sense  of  social  pro- 
priety; it  turns  with  their  hair.  Where  the  sword 
thrust  home  was  that  this  indelicacy  had  occurred  in 
his  own  particular  circle.  Such  things  ought  never 
to  happen  in  so  well  regulated  a  family.  His  prom- 
inent, kindly  eyes  bulged  in  his  head  as  he  strove  to 


26o  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

imagine  the  colours  with  which  scandalous  tongues 
might  decorate  the  tale. 

And  not  only  this  misfortune,  but  his  daughter 
had  fallen  in  love,  as  far  as  he  had  been  able  to  as- 
certain, with  the  disturbing  element  himself!  The 
more  Mr.  Copley  considered  the  matter,  the  less 
soluble  the  quandary  appeared.  It  was  not  a  thing 
to  tell  his  wife;  even  if  it  were  his  right  to  repeat 
the  secret,  it  would  cause  her  endless  worry.  If 
Rosalind  knew,  it  might  destroy  her  happiness  for 
ever;  as  for  Eric,  it  would  certainly  cast  a  cloud 
over  his  whole  life.  Like  a  kind  husband,  he  had 
no  desire  to  disturb  his  wife;  no  more  did  he  feel 
it  his  duty  to  impart  to  Eric  such  destructive  in- 
formation, especially  since  his  own  father  had  al- 
ways kept  it  from  him.  For  the  fiftieth  time  Mr. 
Copley  came  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  not  a 
soul  to  whom  he  could  unburden  his  puzzling  knowl- 
edge. After  all,  he  assured  himself,  since  the  dog 
was  soundly  asleep,  there  could  be  no  reason  for 
waking  him.  Eric  was  committing  no  crime;  if 
Rosalind  chose  to  marry  him,  there  was  no  real 
objection  to  it.  He  was  attractive,  sincere,  evi- 
dently exceedingly  clever  and  talented.  What  more 
could  be  asked?  Mr.  Copley's  private  knowledge 
was  of  the  kind  that  is  often  employed  as  a  weapon, 
but  some  weapons  do  as  well  upon  the  topmost  shelf 
as  elsewhere.  Feeling  this  to  be  the  case,  Mr.  Cop- 
ley shook  his  head  decidedly  and  permitted  a  stew- 
ard of  the  Sarcophagus  Club  to  prepare  him  a  cock- 
tail. Parental  interference  never  yet  benefited 
love. 

Like  father,  like  daughter.  For  every  thought 
relating  to  Eric  which  her  father  entertained  Rosa- 
lind had  a  parallel  and  many,  many  more.  By  day 


CULMINATION  261 

she  read  him  in  the  chapters  of  her  heart;  he  flamed 
in  sunsets;  he  scattered  across  the  sky  in  flying 
clouds;  and  if  there  were  "books  in  the  running 
brooks,  sermons  in  stones,"  there  was  for  her  his 
spirit  in  everything.  The  few  and  far-off  sounds 
which  break  the  boundless  quiet  of  the  country  night 
are  vague  and  sad:  little  wonder  that  they  brought 
tears  to  her  eyes  as  she  contrasted  the  richness  of 
her  love  with  the  poverty  of  his  return.  And  all 
because  of  Patricia !  Hotly  Rosalind  pressed  her 
lips  together;  Patricia  was  unworthy  of  him,  un- 
worthy to  speak  to  him,  and  yet  he  tolerated  her, 
visited  her,  liked  her  —  even  he !  In  an  ecstasy 
of  unhappiness  she  would  slip  from  her  bed  and 
steal  down  the  long  hall  to  the  room  which  had 
been  his.  The  moonlight  streamed  in  on  the  bed, 
a  square  of  white  softness.  Breathless  she  stood, 
almost  able  to  visualise  his  fine  features  and  dark, 
curling  hair  upon  the  pillow.  And  now  —  ended 
and  forgotten  with  him!  She  passed  through  the 
moonlight  to  the  window,  where  the  clear  trilling 
of  the  tree-toads,  like  vibrations  of  silver  thread, 
came  to  her  ear  with  a  fine  insistence.  In  winter 
the  stars  seem  to  hang  upon  the  trees  and  the  sky 
is  close,  chill,  and  near;  but  in  May  they  shimmer, 
myriads  of  them,  almost  lost  in  distance.  And  this 
was  sad,  too. 

In  the  days  which  followed  Eric's  letter  proved 
of  some  comfort.  At  times  believing  it,  she  warmed 
in  her  heart  to  beautiful  possibilities;  at  others, 
marking  a  mockery  in  each  line,  she  tossed  it  from 
her  disdainfully.  It  was  but  kindness  all.  Pa- 
tricia the  whole  time  had  been  Eric's  love;  his  re- 
gard for  herself  could  be  interpreted  only  in  terms 
of  his  gratitude  to  Mr.  Singleton.  Kindness! 


262  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

Kindness!     Mortifying   counterfeit    of    love  —  she 
had  come  to  hate  that  word ! 

On  the  thirtieth  of  May,  Rosalind  paid  one  of 
her  frequent  visits  to  the  Square.  She  went  often, 
for  there  was  much  to  do,  endless  reading  of  dusty 
papers  and  the  wandering  through  of  an  infinity  of 
drawers.  To  know  it  all  was  hers  added  to  the  in- 
terest and  love  which  she  had  always  felt  for  the  old 
house.  The  majesty  of  summer  reigned  in  the 
Square,  all  the  still,  sweet  calmness  of  full  after- 
noon decorating  its  shy  beauty.  Brick  is  a  blank, 
harsh  colour  in  other  places;  but  on  such  a  day, 
in  such  a  worldless  spot,  the  red  of  the  houses  was 
but  a  pleasant  glow  of  light.  Yet  one  could  not 
say  that  light  was  anywhere.  Long,  silent  shad- 
ows of  the  housetops  and  the  trees  drifted  indis- 
tinguishably  into  areas  of  brightness.  The  two 
white  statues  shone  gently  at  either  end  of  the  green 
like  twins  of  ivory;  a  placid  glow  lingered  in  the 
hazy  tops  of  the  old  elms  and  mirrored  in  the  upper 
windows  of  the  higher  houses;  but  nowhere  was 
there  light  and  light  alone.  The  soft  shadows  that 
become  old  age  lingered  in  the  sun's  own  shining. 

Slowly  Rosalind  drew  near  the  house.  It  was  a 
day  for  slow  steps  and  memory,  a  day  on  which  no 
power  of  will  could  keep  the  mind  from  reverting 
to  the  past.  There  are  such  days  for  all  of  us. 
Thinking  of  the  first  wonder  of  her  love,  she  half- 
unconsciously  approached  the  iron  fence.  Here 
Eric  had  come  to  her,  standing  in  this  same  spot 
on  a  gusty  evening  in  the  last  of  April.  He  would 
not  come  now  —  that  was  changed !  In  the  pas- 
sage of  one  little  month  she  had  understood  and 
lost  the  mystery  of  living.  To  dream  of  the  stress 


CULMINATION  263 

of  love  is  enevitable;  to  experience  it,  divine;  to 
lose  it,  ineffably  melancholy.  There  was  something 
hot  in  her  breast  as  she  touched  the  iron  fence;  once 
there  had  been  no  more  than  its  blackened  bars  be- 
tween them.  Rosalind  struck  them  with  her  hand 
—  one  is  always  dramatic  in  one's  memories. 
White  clover,  faintly  tipped  with  pink,  dotted  the 
grass  where  she  and  Eric  had  sat,  and  its  odour  rose 
delicately  on  the  afternoon  air.  As  she  looked 
wistfully  in  at  the  blossoms,  a  cry  escaped  her  lips: 
almost  at  her  feet,  so  close  was  it  growing  to  the 
wrought-iron  fence,  a  four-leafed  clover  had  caught 
her  eye.  Stretching  her  hand  through  the  bars,  she 
plucked  it  and  stood  awhile  silent.  There  are  times 
when  one  can  well  afford  to  be  superstitious.  She 
placed  the  green  leaves  carefully  in  her  handker- 
chief and  with  a  sigh  entered  the  house  —  her  house. 
As  yet  she  had  not  recovered  from  the  strange- 
ness that  had  come  over  the  rooms.  A  house  not 
lived  in  is  easily  recognisable;  it  is  like  a  man  with- 
out a  religion.  Everything  may  be  in  perfect  or- 
der, the  rooms  magnificent,  dusted  and  swept,  filled 
with  every  conceivable  comfort,  and  yet !  —  there 
is  a  materialism,  a  deadness  about  the  place  which 
reveals  itself  instantly  on  examination.  No  atten- 
tion of  servants  can  dispell  this  pervadant  empti- 
ness. Wandering  through  the  rooms,  Rosalind  felt 
deeply  the  sentiment  which  can  exist  for  purely  in- 
animate things.  There  were  the  brocade  _  curtains 
in  the  great  drawing-room;  framed  in  their  folds, 
she  had  observed  Eric  at  the  piano  for  the  first 
time.  Romney's  portrait  of  "  An  English  Gentle- 
man "  catching  her  attention,  she  recollected  how 
her  godfather  had  lifted  her  as  a  baby  in  his  arms 
to  kiss  the  picture.  That  had  been  a  favoured  ac- 


264  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

complishment  of  her  childhood;  but  to  this  day  the 
worldly  eyes  of  the  young  swaggerer  still  fasci- 
nated her.  As  she  turned  away,  the  afternoon  light 
gleamed  upon  the  piano  and  she  went  to  it.  Find- 
ing her  book  of  Chopin's  Preludes  still  opened  on 
the  rack,  she  essayed  a  few  notes,  but  found  the 
emotion  of  music  too  strong  to  bear.  When  soft 
voices  die,  music  becomes  impossibly  sad. 

Slowly  she  mounted  the  stairs  and  passed  to  the 
little  library.  A  sheaf  of  letters  lay  by  the  win- 
dow where  she  had  left  them  the  morning  before. 
Seating  herself  near  the  table  on  which  they  were 
scattered,  she  picked  up  the  topmost  envelope  and 
took  out  an  old  letter  written  in  grey,  faded  ink 
from  Paris  in  her  godfather's  youth.  Half  amus- 
edly she  marked  the  filial  politeness  of  past  gen- 
erations; their  respect  seemed  cold  and  distant. 
This  letter  to  his  mother  contained  an  account  of 
his  life  in  the  atelier,  of  his  progress  in  French, 
and  quaint  little  sketches  of  people  whom  he  was 
meeting.  "  Yesterday  we  drove  in  a  cabriolet  to 
Saint  Cloud.  The  President  was  having  a  fete 
there.  Joseph  introduced  me  to  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  women  that  I  have  ever  met,  a  Mme. 
Holland.  A  vicomtesse  in  her  own  right,  she  lately 
married  the  tenor  who  created  the  great  furore  last 
spring.  Holland,  they  say,  is  very  respectable,  yet 
I  think  she  regrets  the  match  already.  The  most 
perfect  green  eyes  and  luxuriant  black  hair.  I  am 
to  meet  her  again  at  dinner  at  the  de  Freycinets' 
to-night." 

Rosalind's  eyes  had  almost  drifted  over  this  pas- 
sage before  she  appreciated  its  context.  This  was 
Eric's  mother!  She  closely  scanned  the  passage 
again  and  her  blood,  mounting  to  her  temples, 


CULMINATION  265 

throbbed  in  excitement.  The  past  was  alive,  open- 
ing to  her  now.  Eagerly  she  finished  this  letter 
and  devoured  all  those  bound  in  the  same  packet, 
feeling  that  this  must  be  a  part  of  her  own  life 
which  had  been  hidden  from  her.  She  read  with 
the  interest  of  a  wide-eyed  discoverer.  At  first  the 
mentions  of  Mme.  Holland  were  voluminous;  her 
hair,  her  eyes,  her  dresses,  her  bonmots,  her  sweet- 
ness, drives  in  the  park,  parties  at  the  Gallifets', 
at  the  Opera,  at  the  Waddingtons',  filled  the  pages. 
Yet  as  the  note  grew  more  intense,  the  reflections 
on  Marie  dwindled.  Letters  passed  in  which  she 
was  not  mentioned,  and  there  was  never  more  than 
a  line  in  the  others  —  a  strong,  burning  line  which 
made  Rosalind  thrill  with  the  fierceness  of  the  feel- 
ing steeped  in  it.  It  was  as  if  a  great  passion  were 
being  condensed  and  compressed  into  an  impossibly 
small  area.  "  Marie  and  I  spent  Sunday  at  Saint 
Cloud  again.  We  walked  in  the  park  where  Jo- 
seph first  introduced  us.  Oh,  madam!  Saint 
Cloud  is  divine !"..."  Monsieur  Holland  sang 
in  '  Lucia  di  Lammermoor '  to-night.  His  voice  is 
exquisite  and  he  acts  with  great  elegance;  he  sings 
always  to  his  wife,  but  sang  chiefly  to  me  to-night, 
as  I  sat  in  the  front  of  her  box."  ..."  Marie  has 
been  ill.  I  cannot  bear  that  she  suffer."  .  .  . 
(And  this  from  the  last  letter:)  "I  would  you 
might  meet  Marie,  dear  madam;  we  speak  together 
of  you." 

This  was  all!  The  thread  was  broken  here. 
Rosalind  remembered  that  Mr.  Singleton's  father 
had  fallen  suddenly  ill,  that  the  son  had  sped  back 
to  Boston,  and,  so  she  understood,  had  never  left 
that  city  again.  As  the  faded  envelopes  slipped  to 
the  floor,  Rosalind  was  tremulous,  almost  frightened 


266  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

before  these  flowers  of  the  past.  Outside  the  sun 
with  salmon  and  gold  was  tinting  the  haze-blue  of 
the  sky,  and  far  over  the  shining  Basin  the  spires 
and  chimneys  of  Cambridge  gleamed  with  yellow. 
What  had  happened  to  this  romance  of  her  god- 
father? Why  had  he  never  again  left  Boston? 
Why  had  his  life  been  first  one  of  social  diversion, 
full  of  the  eager  pursuit  of  pleasure,  and  then  in  his 
years  of  illness  one  of  hermitage? 

Puzzled,  interested,  saddened,  Rosalind,  her  chin 
on  her  hand,  stared  across  the  housetops  of  the  mur- 
muring city.  There  was  a  mystery  in  these  letters 
which  evoked  all  the  sympathy  and  romance  of  her 
young  heart.  The  salmon  changed  to  pink  in  the 
higher  heavens;  the  gold  fled  eastward.  Dominant 
and  huge,  the  red  orange  sun  rolled  upon  the  hori- 
zon. Time  fled,  unheeded,  unwelcomed,  ignored; 
and  in  its  flight,  over  the  diminuendo  of  the  city's 
vague  hum,  chords  of  music  stole  to  Rosalind's  ears. 
At  first  the  sounds  seemed  only  imaginary  creations 
of  harmony;  but  the  strain  persisted.  Of  a  sudden 
she  was  standing  erect,  trembling  a  little.  The 
Seventeenth  Prelude  of  Frederic  Chopin!  She  al- 
most stumbled  in  her  trepidation.  A  delicate  gloom 
had  stolen  through  the  library,  increasing  the  eerie 
effect  of  music  in  a  house  where  only  she  could  play. 
For  a  moment  genuine  fright  conquered  her;  the 
gentleness  of  the  touch  below  befitted  ghostly  fin- 
gers !  Stealing  from  the  room,  she  tiptoed  to  the 
banisters,  where  softly  the  melody  sang  upwards. 
Then  from  the  nuance  of  the  playing  she  knew  it 
to  be  Eric.  Suddenly  faint  with  surprise,  anticipa- 
tion, hope,  she  leaned  against  the  wall.  A  picture 
stirring  at  her  touch,  she  clenched  her  hands  and 
listened.  He  had  not  heard.  The  emotion  of  the 


CULMINATION  267 

moment  entered  into  her  body  and  swept  it  clear  of 
earthly  dust.  With  glistening  eyes  and  pulsing  blood 
she  stole  down  the  stairs;  the  supreme  moment  of 
her  life  was  at  hand,  and  before  its  reign  the  history 
and  time  of  ages  fell  away  and  left  the  world  to  her 
alone. 

The  last  deep  monotone  of  the  prelude  united 
with  silence.  In  the  folds  of  the  brocade  curtains 
Rosalind  stared,  as  long  before,  towards  the  piano. 
About  her  the  room  was  darkening,  but  enough 
brightness  fell  through  the  window  to  place  the 
player  in  bold  relief,  to  reveal  his  poise  and  subtle 
carriage  at  the  same  time  that  it  denied  his  features. 
The  curve  and  suppleness  of  his  back  was  marked 
by  a  pencil  of  light. 

"Eric!" 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  unexpected  and  un- 
natural, the  figure  at  the  piano  sprang  to  its  feet. 

"Why,  who  — Rosalind!" 

She  came  towards  him  into  the  area  of  light. 
Her  shining  eyes  gained  new  beauty  as  they  stared. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  in  the  house.  You 
startled  me."  Smilingly  Eric  took  her  hand. 

"  And  you  startled  me,  too." 

"  Did  you  just  come  in?  " 

"  No.  I  have  been  upstairs  all  this  afternoon.  ^  I 
thought  it  must  be  a  spirit,  when  you  began  playing 
my  prelude  —  our  prelude,"  she  corrected  with  a 
smile. 

"  I  found  it  open  on  the  rack."  His  fingers 
stirred  aimlessly  across  the  white  keys.  "  It  made 
me  think  —  of  you." 

Rosalind's  heart  leaped  within  her  in  the  greatness 
of  her  desire  to  speak,  but  she  could  find  no  utterance 
for  the  words  which  tumbled  through  her  brain.  A 


268  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

chill  permeated  her  body,  delicious,  sudden,  domi- 
nant. She  turned  her  head  aside  and  traced  with 
a  nervous  forefinger  the  letters  of  Eric's  name  upon 
the  piano's  cover. 

"  I  came  back,  Rose." 

"Why?"  she  asked  with  a  sudden  courage. 
"  You  did  not  let  me  know." 

"  I  wanted  to  surprise  you." 

'  You  have,  indeed." 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  you  would  be  here  so  late.  I 
came  on  the  chance." 

"  I  have  been  reading  some  letters  of  godfather's. 
They  were  —  about  your  mother." 

"  May  I  read  them,  too?  " 

Rosalind  did  not  answer  for  a  moment. 

"  Did  you  know,  Eric,  that  they  had  loved  each 
other?" 

"  I  guessed." 

"  These  letters  are  from  godfather  to  his  own 
mother.  There  are  only  hints  in  them;  some  things 
you  don't  speak  of  to  a  mother." 

Eric  murmured  a  reply.  Rosalind  had  never  told 
her  mother  of  her  love  for  Eric;  she  had  never  even 
intimated  it. 

"  Tell  me !  "  she  demanded  suddenly.  "  Was 
Washington  —  amusing?  Did  you  like  it?  What 
did  you  do?"  She  sought  to  be  guileless,  but  the 
ugly  shadow  of  Patricia  had  stolen  into  her  mind  and 
her  questions  seemed  conscious  and  false.  Patricia 
was  the  one  thing  destructive  to  the  quietude  of  life; 
with  her  explained  time  might  run  through  the  rough- 
est day  and  all  would  be  well.  Yet  Rosalind  could 
not  approach  the  subject  directly,  bereft  by  delicacy 
of  words. 

"  Let  us  not  talk  of  cities,  now,  Rose." 


CULMINATION  269 

'What,  then?     Of  the  people  you  saw  there?" 

"  I  stayed  with  Patricia's  aunt." 

Fencing  is  a  dangerous  game,  yet  Rosalind  per- 
severed in  it. 

"Where  did  you  find  Patsy?  Was  she  in  Phila- 
delphia? "  she  asked  with  apparent  indifference. 

"No;  she  wrote  to  me." 

;'  Did  you  go  to  Mt.  Vernon?  " 

"  I  made  some  sketches  of  it.  It  certainly  is  the 
most  inspiring  thing  that  I  have  seen  in  America! 
I  think  it  as  nearly  the  perfect  type  as  one  can  find. 
You  Americans  must  love  it.  Why,  there  were  a 
hundred  songbirds  on  the  lawn  and  below  us  the  Po- 
tomac gleamed  and  turned  in  the  sunshine.  Beauti- 
ful? Every  bit  of  it!  I  will  show  you  .my 
sketches." 

"  I  shall  love  to  see  them."  She  wondered  if 
Patricia  had  been  with  him  and  had  watched  him  at 
work.  What  did  Patricia  know  of  the  beauty  and 
worth  of  his  drawings?  Little,  pricking  devils 
goaded  her  to  ask,  "  Did  —  Patsy  like  them?  " 

Eric's  eyes  rested  on  her. 

"  You  seem  mightily  interested  in  Patricia,"  he 
said  softly.  "  I  thought  you  did  not  like  her." 

Rosalind  was  fairly  caught. 

"  She  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  she  murmured. 

"  Old  friends  are  not  always  the  best,  are  they?  )1 

She  turned  her  eyes  to  his  face  as  they  stood  by 
the  window  in  the  fading  light.  Surely  the  double 
meaning  which  she  found  in  these  words  he  had  not 
placed  there  intentionally? 

"  No,  Eric,  not  always." 

"  Let's  forget  about  Patricia !  There  is  a  hap- 
pier and  more  interesting  subject  to  discuss." 

"  What? "     Suddenly  she   felt  a  clear,  untram- 


27o  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

meled  happiness  encircle  her.  In  this  renunciation 
of  Patricia,  this  careless,  trifling  valuation  of  her 
worth,  there  was  a  free  release  from  jealousy. 

"  Ourselves."  She  trembled  at  such  a  union. 
"  What  have  you  been  doing  in  my  absence,  Rose? 
How  has  the  time  passed?  " 

"  Slowly  enough.  It  has  been  dull  and  quiet  and 
lonely.  I  did  not  know  that  I  should  miss  you  so. 
Your  letter  helped  cheer  me  up  —  thank  you  for  it. 
Look !  A  four-leafed  clover !  I  found  it  this  after- 
noon —  out  under  the  elms." 

She  showed  him  the  little  leaves,  nodding  towards 
the  Square. 

"  It  should  bring  you  luck,"  he  said,  holding  it  to 
the  light. 

"  I  hope  it  will.     That's  why  I  picked  it." 

"  Hasn't  Gary  come  back?  " 

"  Gary?     Benjamin?     I  had  forgotten  him!  " 

She  sank  down  on  the  sofa  by  the  window.  Ben- 
jamin's name  sounded  out  of  tune,  discouraging,  and 
dull  in  the  midst  of  her  nervous  happiness,  and  the 
remembrance  that  in  two  days  she  must  give  her  an- 
swer to  him  again  showed  its  Gorgon  head.  Where 
was  he  ?  In  his  last  letter  he  had  written  of  return- 
ing Thursday.  Perhaps  at  this  very  moment  he  was 
in  Boston  or  at  Sherborne.  She  fell  into  uncomfort- 
able silence. 

"  He  seemed  a  fine  man." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Rosalind  vaguely.  Then,  half 
to  herself,  half  intentioning :  "Poor  Benjamin!" 

While  the  afterglow  of  sunset  yet  brightened  the 
lower  heavens,  on  high  a  few  pale  stars  were  visible 
and  the  room  in  which  they  sat  was  become  almost 
wholly  dark.  Eric  stood  beside  the  window,  where 
still  there  was  light  enough  to  trace  the  slenderness 


Eric  stood  beside  the  window  .  .  . 


CULMINATION  271 

of  his  body.  For  a  moment  his  face  was  turned 
from  Rosalind;  and  the  dark  hair  on  the  top  of  his 
head  glinted  dully  in  the  window  which  framed  him 
before  her.  When  he  turned  toward  her  again,  his 
voice  was  gentle. 

"  Do  you  remember  our  walk  along  the  Espla- 
nade?" 

Rosalind  nodded. 

'  There  was  a  conversation  then  we  never 
finished." 

'  You  wrote  me  — " 

"  Rosalind,  shall  you  still  miss  me  when  I  go  back 
to  France?  Shall  you  want  me  here?  " 

1  Yes,  Eric." 

"  Is  there  not  some  one  else  who  — "  He  broke 
off,  thinking  of  the  evening  when  he  had  seen  her  in 
Benjamin  Gary's  arms. 

"  No  one." 

Eric  bent  forward. 

"Gary?" 

Rosalind,  too,  remembered  that  sad  evening;  a 
flush  mounted  to  her  cheeks,  but  her  eyes  did  not  fall 
from  his  face.  She  was  drinking  from  the  cup  of 
eternal  happiness. 

"  No,  not  Ben.  No  one,"  she  replied  in  a  firm 
voice. 

"  Rosalind  —  Rose,  will  you  listen  while  I  tell  you 
something?  I  came  here,  a  stranger,  and  saw  you 
• —  do  you  remember  the  night  I  caught  up  the  old 
woman  from  before  your  machine?  I  do.  I  met 
you ;  we  were  always  together  at  first.  You  seemed 
to  like  me,  to  want  me  with  you."  In  divine  sus- 
pense, Rosalind  clutched  among  the  cushions  on  the 
sofa.  "  I  did  not  feel  I  had  a  right  to  care  for  you 
—  and  then  your  godfather  told  me  that  he  had 


272  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

wanted  you  and  me  to  —  but  I  thought  you  loved 
some  one  else !  And  so  I  went  away  and  tried  to 
amuse  myself.  I  couldn't,  Rose."  He  had  moved 
to  the  sofa.  His  hand  was  close  by  hers;  he  almost 
touched  her  dress  as  he  stood,  bending  to  see  her 
eyes.  When  he  spoke  again,  his  voice  was  softer 
still,  a  mere  breath  trembling  in  her  ear.  "  I  missed 
you.  Why,  Rose?  Because  I  loved  you.  I 
seemed  to  find  you  in  everything  beautiful  and  won- 
derful I  saw.  When  I  sat  at  Mt.  Vernon  with  my 
sketchbook,  I  saw  you  in  its  loveliness.  I  thought 
how  you  would  enjoy  it;  I  drew  for  you.  And 
what  shall  I  do  if  I  must  return  to  Paris?  In  a 
dusty  atelier  I  shall  have  no  hope  to  find  you.  All 
my  spirit  shall  be  gone.  I  have  learned  from  you  to 
do  things  with  a  new  meaning;  your  approval  is  all 
the  value  of  achievement.  I  have  no  one  to  be  alive 
for  in  Paris." 

His  head  bowed  above  her. 

"  Eric,"  she  murmured. 

She  could  say  only  this,  for  her  throat  was  dry. 
Taking  his  hand  which  touched  hers  warmly  on  the 
cushion,  she  pressed  it  hard,  as  if  she  sought  to  trans- 
late all  her  love  and  her  desire  into  this  one  touch. 
Of  a  sudden  a  magnificent  torrent  seemed  to  break 
upon  her.  Eric  was  half-kneeling,  his  arms  flung 
round  her,  his  face  beside  hers.  His  lips  brushed 
her  cheek  as  the  words  tumbled  out,  and  she  felt 
his  hair  against  her  temples,  and  the  warmth  of 
his  blood  dancing  in  his  face.  A  mighty  thrill  in- 
vaded all  her  body;  her  pulses  raced  in  the  nearness 
of  his  heart  to  hers. 

"  Rose,  I  love  you !  I  love  you !  Life  and  happi- 
ness are  ours  —  we'll  share  them  with  no  one.  You 
do  want  me,  dearest  ?  Oh,  my  Rose,  my  Rose  1  " 


CULMINATION  273 

He  had  drawn  her  to  her  feet  and  his  arms  were 
about  her  now,  so  powerful  that  Rosalind  marvelled 
at  his  strength.  Together  they  stood  in  the  death- 
less moment  of  embrace,  their  hearts  stirring  in 
tumult  and  their  lips  in  the  darkness  meeting  in  cul- 
mination. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

DEAD    NARCISSUS 

INNER  is  ready,  madam." 

Mrs.    Copley    laid    down    her    neatly- 
folded  Transcript. 

"  Has  Miss  Rose  come  in?  " 

"  No,  madam.     Not  yet." 

"  We'll  wait  a  while,  Paris.  It's  only  just  seven- 
thirty." 

She  picked  up  the  paper  again,  but  thought  better 
of  it  before  she  had  actually  begun  to  read. 

"  Jack!  "she  called.  ^ 

A  masculine  sound,  intended  to  denote  pre-occu- 
pation  and  a  great  unwillingness  to  be  disturbed, 
came  from  the  adjoining  study,  where  Mr.  Copley 
perused  with  devotional  solemnity  his  copy  of  the 
Transcript. 

"  Rose  is  not  yet  at  home,  dear." 

Another  sound. 

"  I  hope  nothing's  happened.  It's  not  like  her  to 
be  late,  is  it?  " 

To  this  Mr.  Copley  vouchsafed  no  answer.  His 
wife  sighed,  looked  at  her  wrist  watch,  and,  as  she 
did  so,  caught  a  reflection  of  herself  in  a  neighbour- 
ing mirror.  For  a  moment  that  wooden  expression, 
peculiar  to  every  one  when  looking  into  a  glass, 
moulded  her  features.  The  inspection  was  momen- 
tary, unintentional,  but  pleasing;  she  rather  fancied 

274 


DEAD  NARCISSUS  275 

herself  in  horn  spectacles,  the  large  kind  with  great 
owlish  lenses,  the  dark  frames  of  which  against  the 
white  of  her  hair  were  engagingly  scholastic  and 
added  to  her  beauty  a  provoking  air  of  erudition. 
Since  the  reputation  for  intellectuality  in  a  society 
which  devotes  its  time  to  other  matters  depends  a 
great  deal  upon  appearances,  Mrs.  Copley  often 
passed  for  a  modern  Mme.  de  Rambouillet  —  a  re- 
semblance which,  from  the  physical  side  at  least, 
would  have  pleased  la  grande  Arthenice. 

A  suggestion  of  day  faded  in  through  the  opened 
windows  to  combat  vaguely  the  lamplight  and  lin- 
gered with  refreshing  calm  about  the  subdued  greys 
and  silvers  of  the  room.  A  simple  room,  for  sim- 
plicity is  the  requisite  of  coolness,  and  the  house  was 
intended  for  the  incipient  heat  of  May  and  June. 
Indeed,  the  simplicity  to  some  seemed  studied. 
There  were  no  paintings;  only  a  few  of  Turner's 
water-colours  with  an  occasional  Sargent  for  the 
sake  of  balance.  The  ornaments  were  on  a  similar 
plane  of  simplicity;  two  vases  of  lapis  lazuli,  filled 
with  tall,  shadowy  larkspur;  a  figurine  of  Mrs.  Cop- 
ley by  Prince  Troubetzkoy;  some  Chinese  porce- 
lains ;  nothing,  in  short,  pretentious  or  arresting.  It 
was  a  country  house,  the  "  Sherborne  farm,"  and  at 
any  cost  Mrs.  Copley  sought  to  preserve  its  char- 
acter. To  her  it  seemed  that  flowers  should  suffice 
for  decoration  and  blossoms  filled  the  room:  blue 
larkspur  in  vases,  white  rosebuds  floating  in  a  great 
circular  dish,  and  the  occasional  glow  of  marigolds 
defying  darkness  in  the  corners.  On  the  air  loitered 
the  perfume  of  heliotrope. 

In  the  centre  of  this  loveliness  sat  Mrs.  Copley, 
rare,  untrammeled,  exquisite  to  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 
In  warm  weather,  when  only  the  family  was  present, 


276  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

she  affected  a  cerulean  blue  —  scarcely  a  dress,  yet 
every  detail  of  its  apparent  incoherence  represented 
the  ardour  and  grace  of  Parisian  design.  Embody- 
ing all  the  witchery  of  feminine  apparel,  a  veil  of 
chiffon  fell  in  soft  blue  lines  from  her  white  shoul- 
ders to  her  golden-slippered  feet,  while  underneath 
shimmered  a  silver  bodice.  About  her  neck  drifted 
a  scarf  of  hazy  pink,  like  a  little  cloud  at  sunrise  mak- 
ing the  blue  sky  immortal,  and  on  the  taper  fingers 
which  for  a  moment  pressed  against  her  hair  glowed 
a  great  sapphire.  It  was  Fragonard  in  the  twentieth 
century !  Boucher  dressed  a  la  mode  1  Watteau 
with  the  evening  Transcript! 

"Jack!" 

A  cricket  chirred  insistently  outside  the  window, 
but  Mr.  Copley,  steeped  in  editorial  wisdom,  kept 
silence. 

"  Please  call  up  the  Square,  dear.  The  telephone 
is  right  at  your  elbow.  I  can't  think  where  Rose  is." 

Mr.  Copley  groaned  irritably. 

"  Please,  Jack." 

There  were  sounds  of  a  disgruntled  man  putting 
aside  what  he  considered  his  legitimate  field  of  en- 
deavour for  the  evening  —  namely,  his  paper  —  and 
taking  up  that  most  useful  and  most  condemned  of 
all  instruments,  the  telephone.  In  the  prolonged 
and  vexing  parley  with  central  which  followed,  Mr. 
Copley  soon  lost  his  temper  and  Mrs.  Copley  her  in- 
terest. 

'  Well?  "  she  asked,  when  her  husband  at  length 
appeared. 

"  She's  at  the  Square." 

;'  What  happened?     Machine  break?  " 

Mr.  Copley's  back  was  turned  and  he  "did  not  an- 
swer. 


DEAD  NARCISSUS  277 

"  My  dear  Jack,  you'll  not  find  any  odour  in  those 
marigolds ;  not  even  if  you  sniff  yourself  black  in  the 
face.  What  did  she  say?  " 

'  Nothing  particular.     These  are  fine  larkspurs." 

"  Yes.  I  picked  them  this  afternoon.  She's  com- 
ing home  to-night?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.     She'll  be  — " 

Begun  with  pretended  collusiveness,  Mr.  Cop- 
ley's sentence  did  not  conclude. 

"What's  keeping  her,  Jack?  Do  say  some- 
thing!" 

•Why,  it's  —  it's  Eric." 

"Eric?     Where  did  he  come  from?  " 

"  He's  just  back,  she  said.  They're  coming  home 
together." 

Mr.  Copley  looked  hard  at  his  wife. 

"  Eric  Holland !  "  she  murmured  surprisedly. 
Her  pretty  mouth  was  framed  to  ask  a  question  when 
Paris  with  a  cough  announced  dinner. 

After  the  meal  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Copley  sat  together 
in  their  restful  drawing-room,  the  one  smoking  and 
the  other  reading.  Somehow  Mr.  Copley's  cigar 
did  not  draw  well  and  his  wife's  book  failed  to  hold 
her  attention.  When  her  husband  arose  to  throw 
his  cigar  away,  Mrs.  Copley,  looking  up  for  the 
fiftieth  time  since  dinner,  found  his  eyes  were  upon 
her  and  smiled  indulgently. 

"Well,  Jack?" 

They  had  been  happy  together  —  and  how  diffi- 
cult it  is  for  the  rich,  since  they  have  no  aspirations, 
no  struggles,  no  bread  to  share  with  one  another,  to 
be  happy  in  marriage!  To  share  diversions  and 
luxuries  is  indeed  comfortable,  but  to  share  bread  is 
divine.  Over  caviare  there  can  be  no  real  sympathy 


278  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

or  appreciation;  with  corned  beef  and  cabbage  there 
must  be  comradeship  or  nothing.  Any  day  in  the 
year  a  dinner  of  herbs  makes  for  love.  Yet  despite 
these  disadvantages  —  disadvantages  which  never- 
theless are  the  universal  goal  —  the  marriage  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Copley  had  been  a  great  success,  and  her 
indulgent  smile  comprised  their  years  of  affluent 
happiness. 

"  Beth,  I  have  been  thinking." 

"About  Rose?" 

"  Urn."  Mr.  Copley  chose  another  cigar  from  a 
silver  box  with  affectionate  care. 

"  Do  you  think  she  loves  Eric?  " 

"  I  thought  —  wasn't  she  fond  of  Cary?  " 

Mrs.  Copley  shook  her  head.  "  Not  in  love, 
though,  Jack.  Benjamin  is  one  of  those  St.  Bernard 
people,  don't  you  know?  No  girl  can  adore  a  St. 
Bernard :  it  takes  up  too  much  space." 

"  Don't  see  it !  I  thought  girls  liked  the  big,  red- 
blooded  kind.  He  was  a  wonderful  athlete  —  cap- 
tain of  the  crew  his  year.  And  then  he's  a  good 
lawyer,  I  imagine.  I'm  not  saying  he's  emotional  or 
anything  like  that." 

'  You  mean  like  Eric?  " 

'  Well,  don't  you  think  Eric  is  a  little  — " 

"  Of  course,  he  is  flighty,  Jack,  especially  for 
America.  I  didn't  take  to  that  sort  when  I  was 
young,  did  I  ?  " 

Mr.  Copley  puffed  at  his  cigar  with  a  self-satisfied 
smile;  this  one  went  well. 

"  Hardly.     I  used  to  play  the  flute,  though." 

"  But  I  never  held  it  against  you."  They  both 
laughed.  u  I  tell  you  what  I  think,  Jack.  I  think 
that  Rosalind  is  head  over  heels  this  time." 


DEAD  NARCISSUS  279 

"  She  never  says  anything." 

"  They  never  do.  Nobody  else's  opinion  is  of 
any  use  at  such  a  time  —  not  even  a  mother's." 

"  She  sounded  over  the  telephone  as  if  dinner  were 
too  material  a  think  to  speak  of.  She  said  they'd 
forgotten  it  —  and  laughed." 

"Really?" 

Mr.  Copley  nodded  several  times. 
'What  do  you  think?" 

"  Everything,"  replied  his  wife  with  a  pretty  ges- 
ture. "  And  I  don't  see  but  that  it  will  make  a  very 
happy  marriage.  I'm  sure  Tony  would  have  wanted 
it.  In  fact,  it's  a  wonder  he  didn't  speak  of  it  in  his 
will.  Did  he  ever  say  anything  to  you  about  Eric?  " 

Arising  precipitately,  Mr.  Copley  walked  to  the 
mantelpiece,  where  he  stood  with  his  back  to  his 
wife.  Within  him  his  secret  whirled  about  like  a 
dervish.  After  so  many  years  of  absolute  confi- 
dence, it  was  hard  beyond  belief  to  keep  to  himself 
any  piece  of  information. 

"  Oh,  yes.     Of  course.     Some  things." 

"What,  for  instance?" 

Mr.  Copley  put  his  cigar  between  his  lips  for  an 
artificial  dike. 

"He  —  er  — " 

After  all,  she  ought  to  know!  She  was  as  much 
Rosalind's  mother  as  he  was  her  father.  If  she  felt 
so  assured  that  Rosalind  and  Eric  were  in  love  and 
meant  to  marry,  it  was  plainly  his  duty  to  inform  her 
of  any  details  concerning  the  proposed  son-in-law 
of  which  he  was  cognisant.  Yet  he  made  a  last  ef- 
fort to  hold  the  oozing  secret  back,  hoping  she  would 
enquire  no  further. 

"  Just  about  Eric's  family." 


280  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  They  were  all  right,  weren't  they?     What  did 
he  say,  Jack?     I  should  hate  to  have  Rose  marry 
into  a  oad  inheritance  — " 
'Not  that!" 

"  Foreigners  are  so  different  from  us.  Of  course, 
Eric  has  a  great  deal  of  American  blood  in  him." 

"  Indeed  he  has !  " 

"  His  grandmother,  you  know,  was  a  New  York 
girl.  What  is  the  tenor  like?  Did  Tony  talk  of 
him?" 

"  No." 

"  I  don't  care  particularly  to  have  Rose  marry  a 
singer's  son."  Mrs.  Copley  pulled  the  pink  scarf 
about  her  neck  with  a  relic  of  primness  in  her  man- 
ner. "  But  then  — " 

It  was  too  much  for  flesh  and  blood  to  bear! 
That  wicked  babbler  of  Rome  spoke  true  when  he 
wrote,  "  Citius  flammas  mortales  ore  tenebunt  quam 
secreta  tegant."  The  secret  fairly  sparkled  in  Mr. 
Copley's  red  face. 

"  Hang  it  — "  (What  would  she  say?)  "  I've 
got  to  tell  you,  Beth !  Rolland  isn't  Eric's  father !  " 

"What?" 

"  It's  true.     Tony  told  me." 

"Who  is,  then?" 

Mr.  Copley  looked  hard  at  the  grey  ash  on  the 
end  of  his  cigar. 

"  Tony  was,"  he  answered  in  a  disarming  voice. 

"Jack!" 

Mrs.  Copley  arose  from  her  chair  and  swept  to 
her  husband,  the  colour  mounting  to  her  cheeks  in 
waves. 

"  Tony  ?     Tony  Eric's  father  ?  " 

"  It's  true,  dear." 

"  Oh !  Jack !  "     Mrs.  Copley's  voice  was  subdued, 


DEAD  NARCISSUS  281 

shocked,  disappointed.  "  I'm  glad  I  didn't  know 
while  he  was  alive." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Mr.  Copley 
drew  a  pattern  on  the  soft  grey  carpet  with  the  toe 
of  his  slipper  and  Mrs.  Copley  watched  him. 

"  And  the  mother?  "  she  asked  at  length. 

"  Madame  Holland." 

"Oh!     In  our  family,  Jack!" 

"  I  know,  dear.  Tony  told  me  just  before  you 
came,  on  the  day  that  he  died.  He  left  me  Eric  to 
look  after." 

Mrs.  Copley  was  not  paying  attention ;  to  her  the 
maternal  point  of  view  was  dominant. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  Tony  could  expect,  could  de- 
sire Rose  to  marry  a  —  Why!  Jack!  It's  dread- 
ful !  How  can  the  boy  himself  want  to  marry  Rose, 
if  he  really  loves  her,  knowing  what  he  is?  " 

Mr.  Copley  took  her  hand  in  sudden  alarm. 

"  Listen,  Beth !  He  doesn't  know !  You  must 
understand  that!  Only  Rolland  and  you  and  I 
know.  It  would  ruin  Eric's  life,  if  he  found 
out." 

"  It  will  ruin  Rose's,  if  he  doesn't,  won't  it?  " 

"  I  can't  see  why.     No  one  shall  ever  know." 

"  Oh !  the  secret  is  bound  to  get  out.  They  al- 
ways do." 

"  It  isn't  fair  to  ruin  the  boy's  life." 

"  You're  standing  up  for  him  now,  aren't  you, 
Jack?" 

"Well,  he  fj  Tony's  son!" 

Sitting  down  on  a  sofa,  Mrs.  Copley  stretched  her 
arms  out  on  the  cushions  and  nervously  plucked  at 
their  embroidery. 

"Oh!  I  can't  bear  it,  Jack!  Rose  is  too  good, 
too  pure !  " 


282  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

"  My  dear  Beth,  you  forget  that  Eric  is  utterly 
unconscious  — " 

"  But  the  stain  is  there !  " 

"  I  think  the  stain  is  where  you  —  we  wish  to  put 
it." 

"  Oh !  You  men !  You  always  stand  up  for  one 
another!  Jack,  don't  you  think  it's  wrong?  You 
don't  approve  of  it?  " 

"  Of  course  not,  dear.  But  is  that  the  considera- 
tion? " 

"  I'm  thinking  of  Rose." 

"  So  am  I.  I'm  thinking  of  her  happiness.  Ever 
since  Tony  died  I've  been  wondering,  wondering 
what  it  was  best  to  do." 

"Tell  her!" 

"  No  —  no."  Mr.  Copley  came  and  sat  beside 
his  wife  on  the  sofa.  "  How  can  we?  She  would 
have  to  tell  Eric,  and  then  he  would  feel  that  he 
could  not  marry  her." 

"  That  would  be  best." 

'Why,  Beth!     You  like  Eric." 

"I  do  —  I  do.  I'm  so  sorry  for  the  poor  boy. 
But  Rose  is  our  daughter!  If  she  marries  him,  it 
will  be  an  open  countenancing  of  such  behaviour  as 
Tony's.  I  don't  believe  in  it,  Jack.  It's  rotten  — 
yes,  exactly  so !  —  rotten !  "  Mr.  Copley  made  a 
deprecatory  gesture  with  his  hand.  "  No  —  no, 
Jack !  It's  all  very  well  to  say  Tony's  in  the  family, 
and  nil  nisi,  and  all  that,  but  I'd  as  soon  —  I'd  as 
soon  have  Rosalind  marry  a  drunkard !  " 

"  Oh,  come,  dear,  you  can't  mean  that!  " 

Mrs.  Copley  shook  her  head  firmly.  To  her  sin 
was  inexcusable,  though  she  was  neither  rigorous  nor 
catholic  in  her  religion.  She  occupied  a  pew  in 
Trinity  Church,  because  she  believed  that  it  set  a 


DEAD  NARCISSUS  283 

good  example,  and  she  abhorred  revivalists,  because 
they  were  insulting;  but  none  of  her  concepts  were 
built  upon  reason  or  faith.  Faultlessly  pure  in  her 
own  morals,  she  could  not  condone  the  sins  of  an- 
other. From  her  birth  she  had  lived  in  a  high- 
walled  garden,  shielded  from  east  winds,  basking 
in  untroubled  sunshine;  for  those  people  out  upon 
the  moor  in  the  full  blast  of  temptation  she  had 
neither  cognisance  nor  understanding.  She  could  not 
pardon:  to  pardon  one  first  must  sin. 

"  I  think  you  are  wrong,  Beth."  Mr.  Copley's 
brown  eyes  were  prominent  with  anxiety. 

"  There  are  some  things,  Jack,  a  woman  can  de- 
cide about  better  than  a  man.  I  will  tell  Rosalind 
the  truth." 

"  I  could  not." 

"  It  is  for  a  mother  to  do.  I  will  not  break  her 
heart,  Jack  dear  —  she's  a  woman." 

"  And  if  she  still  wants  him  when  she  knows?  " 

Mrs.  Copley  twirled  the  great  sapphire  about  on 
her  finger. 

"  I  shall  at  least  have  done  my  duty  as  a  mother," 
she  replied. 

Morning  broadened  into  Rosalind's  bedroom. 
Elfin  rays  of  sunshine  stole  across  the  floor  and 
danced  upon  her  coverlet,  patterning  its  blue  with 
lakes  of  gold.  There  was  a  great  calmness  in  the 
pretty  room  which  was  neither  the  placid  quiet  of 
afternoon  nor  yet  the  languishing  hush  of  summer 
nights,  but  a  cleaner,  cooler  peacefulness.  As  Rosa- 
lind awoke,  and  she  awoke  early  from  pure  happiness 
of  heart,  she  felt  this  calmness  steeping  her  nerves 
in  rest.  Yet  she  could  not  rest.  As  the  memories 
of  the  night  before  fluttered  back  in  a  radiant  flight, 


284  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

there  was  so  much  else  in  life  that  rest  had  no  place 
in  it.  She  ran  to  the  window.  Morning  had  flushed 
and  bubbled  over  the  rim  of  darkness  and  the  clear 
notes  of  birds  struck  upon  the  air,  robins  cheerily 
carolling  on  the  lawn,  and  below  her  window  a  blue- 
bird, lost  in  a  cloud  of  syringa  blossoms. 

It  was  so  early  that  no  one  was  stirring  through 
the  great  house  when  she  flew  down  the  noiseless 
stairs  and  out  onto  the  terrace.  As  yet  Nature  had 
not  mixed  her  colours,  and  they  were  so  bright  in 
their  newness  that  Rosalind  wanted  to  touch  every- 
thing surrounding  her,  as  one  irresistibly  feels  of  the 
flamboyant  stuffs  in  a  vagrant  pedlar's  bag.  The  de- 
sire for  action,  the  zeal  for  running  and  singing, 
caught  hold  upon  her.  But  where  should  she  run? 
In  a  comprehensive  glance  her  eyes  fell  upon  Eric's 
opened  window.  What  was  he  thinking  of?  Did 
he  dream?  Did  he  sleep  calmly  and  sweetly,  as  we 
ever  picture  the  sleep  of  those  we  love?  In  the 
plenitude  of  her  happiness  she  threw  a  great,  im- 
pulsive kiss  towards  the  window,  and  as  she  did  so, 
somehow  the  thought  of  his  letter  came  to  her. 
That  was  it !  She  would  run  to  the  spot  where  she 
had  read  his  first  letter;  she  would  undertake  an 
early  pilgrimage  and  bring  back  to  him  a  handful  of 
the  wild  narcissus  which  had  made  the  knoll  so 
bright.  In  a  moment  she  was  off  with  the  sun  full 
on  her  face  and  her  long  shadow  dancing  behind. 

How  easy  life  was  at  last!  Her  road  stretched 
out  now  to  the  crack  of  the  doom,  clean  and  inviting, 
a  fair  road,  a  free  road,  a  road  for  walking  or 
dancing  or  resting  or  running,  a  road  bright  unto  its 
very  end,  a  road  which  she  and  Eric  must  always 
march  —  together.  There  was  indeed  fear  on  the 
road,  but  she  was  protected;  there  was  sorrow,  but 


DEAD  NARCISSUS  285 

she  had  one  with  whom  to  share  it;  there  was  disap- 
pointment, but  there  was  courage,  too.  Together 
how  brave  and  fearless  they  would  be,  how  strong  in 
union,  how  sympathetic  in  understanding!  The 
world  before  them  was  a  world  to  love,  to  conquer, 
to  create! 

Past  the  tinkling  brook  she  sped,  nor  listened  this 
time  to  its  murmur.  That  chapter  was  dry  and 
dusty  now,  thrown  on  a  top  shelf  and  disregarded, 
for  there  were  new  songs  to  sing  and  new  miracles  to 
ponder.  She  thought  how  Eric  had  taken  her  in  his 
arms  the  night  before  and  how  she  had  trembled  at 
his  touch.  Unlike  her  dreams,  the  scene  had  been 
simple;  yet  as  she  remembered  the  feeling  of  his 
crisp  curls  upon  her  temples  she  trembled,  and 
stopped.  Before  her  lay  the  little  knoll  with  its 
single  tree,  the  tracery  of  whose  gnarled  image  made 
dark  patterns  on  the  ground.  Mounting  the  gentle 
rise,  she  looked  expectantly  for  the  star-white  blos- 
soms. An  exclamation  of  dismay  broke  from  her 
lips:  the  narcissuses  lay  in  withered  ugliness  upon 
the  green  turf,  brown  and  dead!  Keenly  disap- 
pointed, she  turned  away;  the  knoll  was  not  so  beau- 
tiful now.  Thinking  to  take  something  back  to  Eric, 
she  plucked  a  single  dusty  stalk,  then  hesitated. 
No !  Unless  it  were  the  best  and  loveliest,  she 
would  not  countenance  it,  she  would  take  nothing 
back;  and  the  pretty  story  which  she  might  have 
made  for  his  delight  died  before  its  birth.  With 
downturned  face  she  retraced  her  steps.  Shorter 
and  blacker,  before  her  streamed  her  shadow. 

Eric  was  not  visible  when  she  re-entered  the 
house.  Vaguely  uneasy,  she  ran  through  the  rooms. 
How  calmly  men  take  love !  With  a  thrilling  heart, 
she  ascended  the  stairs  and  tiptoed  down  the  hall- 


286  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

way  to  pause  outside  of  Eric's  closed  door.  He 
was  singing!  She  caught  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
lightly  rising  and  falling  in  an  old  French  air: 

"  Ah!  je  voudrais  etre  mouche, 
Pour  voleter  dessus  la  bouche, 
Sur  les  cheveux  et  sur  le  sein 
De  ma  dame  belle  et  rebelle; 
Je  picquerais  cette  cruelle 
A  peine  d'y  mourir  soudain!" 

The  blood  seemed  alive  in  her  body.  This  dame 
belle  et  rebelle  was  herself;  he  was  singing  of  her! 
With  her  ear  pressed  close  to  the  door,  she  lis- 
tened — 

"A  peine  d'y  mourir  soudain!" 

The  spirit  rose  within  her  like  sap  in  a  budding 
tree.  This  voice  was  hers!  It  would  sing  to  her 
in  chill  winter  nights  and  in  the  slumbering  noons 
of  summer,  in  the  rain-soaked  fields  of  April  and 
in  the  flaming  orchards  of  October;  it  would  sing 
pain  out  of  life  and  sweetness  in,  but  whatever  it 
sang,  it  would  sing  always  to  her.  Choked  with 
tenderness,  she  touched  for  a  moment  her  lips  to 
the  door  —  then,  unobserved  in  her  worship,  fled 
down  the  hallway. 

The  morning  papers  were  in  the  drawing-room. 
Picking  up  the  Herald,  Rosalind  moved  to  a  sofa 
by  a  window  and  sat  down  where  the  sunlight  played 
in  the  gold  of  her  hair.  From  an  alabaster  bowl 
beside  her  hand  arose  the  odour  of  heliotropes,  deli- 
cate and  sensuous.  She  glanced  across  the  head- 
lines —  a  murder,  a  bank  cashier  missing,  a  double 
victory  for  the  Boston  Americans,  a  train  wreck  — 
and  smiled  at  her  inability  to  comprehend  what  was 


DEAD  NARCISSUS  287 

before  her.  The  knowledge  that  Eric  was  coming, 
that  his  foot  might  even  at  this  very  moment  be 
on  the  stair,  destroyed  all  interest  in  past  events. 
This  was  not  her  world!  Her  world  lay  in  the 
nervous  expectation  of  her  heart.  Skimming  over 
the  page,  she  acquired  none  of  it,  and  was  about 
to  lay  it  aside  when  a  name  caught  her  eye.  Her 
fingers  were  suddenly  numb  and  she  felt  the  colour 
stream  from  her  face.  What  was  she  reading? 
There !  Under  the  wreck  headlines !  From  the 
list  of  those  "  Probably  Fatally  Injured  "  stared  up 
at  her:  "Benjamin  Gary,  Boston  lawyer,  aged 
28 ;  residence  with  Dr.  Gary  at  244  Beacon  Street!  " 

She  clapped  her  hands  to  her  head.  It  could  not 
be!  Benjamin?  She  read  the  paragraph  again 
and  again,  the  awful  story  jumbling  before  her  eyes. 
The  reporter  had  spared  no  words  in  his  descrip- 
tion; every  adjective  that  could  harrow  the  heart 
was  impressed,  doubly  and  trebly  fulfilling  its  horri- 
ble service.  For  an  unknown  cause  the  flying  cars 
had  jumped  the  rails  in  the  subterranean  part  of  the 
Back  Bay  station,  creating  a  veritable  carnage.  In 
a  moment  that  which  had  been  a  swift-moving  train 
had  become  a  flaming  scrap-heap  of  twisted  steel 
and  splintered  wood.  Rosalind's  blood  ran  sick  as 
she  grasped  the  details.  On  the  second  page  she 
found  definite  news  of  Benjamin.  "  Mr.  Benjamin 
Gary  of  244  Beacon  Street,  City,  was  returning  from 
a  business  trip  to  New  Orleans.  Not  a  single  per- 
son in  his  car  escaped  serious  injury.  He  was  stand- 
ing in  the  vestibule  at  the  time  of  the  crash  and  his 
body  was  found  there,  somewhat  burned.  He  was 
totally  unconscious.  Both  legs  were  broken,  one  at 
the  hip.  It  is  feared  that  the  spine  — " 

Rosalind  flung  herself  face  down  on  the  sofa,  un- 


288  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

able  to  read  more,  tortured  by  the  picture  of  the 
wreck  in  her  inward  eye.  She  knew  too  well  the 
reason  of  the  return  from  New  Orleans:  it  had 
been  for  her  answer.  WThile  last  evening  she  had 
been  in  Eric's  arms,  Benjamin  had  been  racked  in 
agony.  Where?  Where  was  he?  Where  had 
they  taken  him?  She  turned  back  to  the  account  in 
the  paper.  "  Mr.  Gary  was  rushed  to  the  Long- 
wood  Hospital,  of  which  his  father,  the  distinguished 
specialist — "  Oh,  God!  How  cruel  she  had 
been !  How  unmeaningly  cruel !  Had  she  but 
known  she  would  have  acted  otherwise,  surely  she 
would  have !  Tears  came  and  blotted  out  her 
thoughts. 

Suddenly  she  felt  arms  around  her,  a  face  close 
and  cool  by  her  hot  cheek,  a  voice  caressing  in  her 
ear. 

"Darling,  what  is  it?  Rose!  Blessed  Rose, 
what  has  happened?  Tell  me." 

It  was  a  sin  to  feel  his  gentle  hands  pressing 
about  her  and  not  to  resist.  She  knew  that  he  was 
kneeling  by  the  sofa,  and  when  she  lifted  her  heavy 
head,  she  found  his  face  close  beside  hers,  anxious 
and  grieving.  It  was  a  sin  that  he  should  kiss  her 
wet  lips  and  her  blue  eyes,  misty  with  tears,  but  she 
had  no  will  to  prevent  him. 

;'  What  is  it?     Please  !     Do  not  cry,  love." 

She  looked  into  his  green  eyes,  green  as  the  sum- 
mer sea  dancing  at  dawn;  they  pierced  deep  with 
sympathy.  Over  her  pallor  came  a  vivid  flush. 
Could  she  tell  him?  What  would  he  say?  A  mo- 
ment later  she  was  angry  with  herself  for  the 
thought ;  there  was  nothing  between  them  to  be  kept 
silent. 

"Eric,   look!"   she  whispered,   holding  out  the 


DEAD  NARCISSUS  289 

newspaper.     "Benjamin,  poor  Benjamin,  he's — " 

She  could  not  finish;  in  her  mind  she  saw  a  little 
calendar  with  ANSWER  BEN  written  opposite  June 
first. 

"  By  Jove !  What  a  smash-up !  "  Eric's  eyes 
were  big  with  surprise  and  wonder.  "  Poor 
Gary!" 

He  looked  at  Rosalind  quickly.  Raising  her  eyes 
to  his,  she  matched  his  gaze.  She  hoped  he  would 
not  ask  the  question  which  she  saw  trembling  on  his 
lips. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  him,"  she  heard  him  say  in  a  dull 
voice. 

He  arose  and  stood  stiffly  by  the  sofa. 

"Eric,"  she  murmured.  "You  don't  —  you 
don't  —  ?  Don't  you  trust  me,  Eric?  " 

He  bent  over  her  in  a  rush  of  tenderness,  staring 
through  her  eyes  to  her  heart. 

"  I  must."  His  voice  was  rough  in  his  throat. 
"  I  do." 

"  Trust  me  for  a  day,  dearest.  I  cannot  explain 
to  you  now.  I  must  see  Benjamin,  but  —  but  — 
oh!  Trust  me,  Eric!  I  love  you  so  much." 

She  caught  his  hand  and  pressed  it  tight  between 
hers.  As  they  stood  in  the  sunshine,  gazing  deeply 
into  each  other's  eyes,  the  scent  of  heliotrope  drifted 
about  them. 

Some  three  hours  later  Rosalind  stepped  from  her 
automobile  at  the  Chief's  entrance  of  the  Longwood 
Hospital.  The  day  had  become  close  and  hot.  In 
the  dazzling  of  the  sun  the  roses  which  she  carried 
in  her  arms  withered  and  hung  their  heads. 

The  Chief  was  alone  in  his  immaculate  office. 
As  he  came  forward  to  greet  her,  Rosalind  noticed 


29o  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

that  there  was  much  pain  in  his  face  and  that  his 
eyes  shadowed  a  surpassing  weariness.  She  tried 
to  say  something. 

"  Doctor,  I  ..." 

Suddenly  she  wished  she  had  not  come.  It 
flashed  through  her  brain  that  Dr.  Gary  felt  that 
his  grief  was  also  hers,  that  she  loved  his  son,  that 
she  had  come  almost  as  Benjamin's  fiancee.  When 
he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  naturally  and 
simply,  Rosalind  withered  like  the  roses  in  the  hot 
sunlight.  His  son  she  had  not  loved,  did  not  love, 
never  could  love;  to-morrow  she  must  refuse  to 
marry  him.  A  horror  for  the  falseness  of  her  po- 
sition possessing  her,  she  sank  down  silently  on  the 
horsehair  sofa,  uneasy,  ashamed,  abashed. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  the  doctor  was  say- 
ing kindly.  "  He  has  spoken  your  name  continu- 
ously since  the  accident." 

"  My  name?  "  she  repeated  faintly. 

"  He  has  been  delirious,  of  course." 

14  Does  he  —  does  he  suffer  terribly,  Dr.  Gary?  " 

"  He  is  still  but  half-conscious.  He  will  suf- 
fer — "  The  surgeon  bravely  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. Rosalind  could  feel  that  he  was  struggling 
to  keep  his  composure,  that  the  struggle  was  a  great 
one,  and  she  dared  not  look  up.  Before  such  un- 
happiness  she  was  small  and  mean. 

When  Dr.  Gary  spoke  again,  his  voice  was 
calmer. 

"  His  work  in  New  Orleans  was  not  finished." 

"No?" 

Rosalind's  head  bowed  pathetically.  Then  it  had 
all  been  her  fault!  Did  Dr.  Gary  know?  Did  he 
blame  her? 

"  He  wrote  me  in  his  last  letter  that  he  was  re- 


DEAD  NARCISSUS  291 

turning  only  for  a  day.  He  said  that  he  had  an 
engagement  on  June  first  that  it  was  necessary  to 
keep.  Poor  boy!  His  letter  is  still  on  my  desk." 

An  engagement  on  June  first  that  it  was  necessary 
to  keep!  Rosalind  shivered.  To-morrow  she 
must  keep  that  engagement,  too.  How?  As  her 
thoughts  whirled  in  a  chaos  of  past  memories  an 
inward  voice  cried  out  revolt.  It  was  unfair !  She 
could  not  jeopardise  her  own  life !  It  would  not  be 
just  to  give  herself  to  Benjamin. 

"  And  now,  Rosalind,  now ! "  The  doctor's 
voice  was  strained  in  his  throat.  "  If  he  does  not 
die,  he  never  can  be  of  use  again.  Both  legs  are 
broken,  and  he  is  paralysed,  always  will  be  paralysed. 
My  son  will  always  be  a  cripple.  .  .  .  Think  of  his 
health  and  strength,  too.  God!  It's  cruel!  It's 
damned  cruel !  "  Rosalind  felt  tears  swimming  in 
her  eyes,  and  would  have  liked  to  speak.  "  Only 
his  mind  is  left.  As  soon  as  he  comes  from  his 
delirium  that  will  be  clear,  but  his  suffering — " 

The  doctor  broke  off  blankly. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  see  him?  "  she  asked  faintly. 

"Will  you?"  The  voice  for  a  moment  seemed 
brighter,  and  she  thrilled  happily.  "  It  will  help." 

With  the  flowers  still  held  to  her  breast  she 
quitted  the  room  with  the  doctor  and  they  hurried 
through  the  silent  corridors  to  the  private  ward.  As 
they  approached  the  nurses'  desk,  the  figures  about  it 
arose. 

"  He's  half-conscious,  sir,"  whispered  the  head 
nurse  in  reply  to  Dr.  Gary's  question. 

Motioning  to  Rosalind  to  wait  outside,  the  sur- 
geon entered  his  son's  room.  She  looked  about 
vaguely,  stunned  by  the  ironical  complexity  of  the 
situation.  Benjamin  occupied  the  last  room  of  the 


292  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

ward;  through  the  partly  opened  door  she  could 
see  that  it  was  darkened.  She  wondered  how  the 
air  was  kept  so  cool.  At  the  nurses'  desk  a  system 
of  flashing  lights  had  supplanted  the  more  noisy 
bells.  It  seemed  a  good  system;  but  what  if  the 
nurses  went  to  sleep?  Would  the  colour  awaken 
them? 

A  touch  on  her  arm  startled  her.  Dr.  Gary  was 
making  a  sign  in  the  doorway.  Straining  her  cour- 
age to  the  utmost,  she  followed  him  into  the  room, 
the  cool  air  of  which  was  impregnated  with  the 
odour  of  antiseptics.  A  fan  whirred  wearily  in  a 
corner,  ceaselessly  moving  from  one  side  of  its 
standard  to  the  other.  After  the  light  of  the  hall 
it  was  impossible  to  see  in  the  shuttered  darkness. 
As  she  moved  nearer  the  bed,  a  beam  of  sunshine 
falling  through  the  blinds  made  a  warm  white  line 
on  her  black  dress. 

The  first  full  view  of  Benjamin  startled  her. 
Strapped  to  the  bed  on  his  back  and  swathed  in 
bandages,  he  appeared  in  the  half-light  enormous. 
And  then  his  face!  As  she  gazed  on  the  strong, 
clean  features  twisted  in  agony,  on  the  working 
mouth,  and  on  the  tortured  brow,  the  roses  fell 
from  her  arms.  In  that  moment  her  sense  of  duty 
broke  its  bonds  and  transfigured  her;  in  that  mo- 
ment she  rose  to  a  nobler  life,  higher  than  self  and 
selfish  interest.  Mercy  struggled  on  her  lips;  chiv- 
alry purified  her  heart. 

"  Benjamin!  "  she  murmured. 

Bending  over  the  bandaged  figure,  she  softly  kissed 
its  lips. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A    DECISION   TO   MAKE 

LIKE  an  invisible  blanket,  heat  oppressed  the 
city.  From  the  housetops  to  the  baking  earth 
it  deadened  the  sweet  air  of  Heaven  till  the 
city  panted  in  the  sultry  atmosphere.  A  billow  of 
suffocation  rolled  in  through  the  opened  windows 
of  the  drawing  room  of  8  Louisburg  Square  and 
broke  upon  the  furniture  into  myriad  lesser  waves 
which  clung  and  eddied  about  the  brocade  curtains. 
Foreign  voices  filled  the  streets  outside.  From  a 
window  Rosalind  could  make  out  shadowy  figures, 
swarmed  from  the  steaming  North  End  in  search  of 
air.  Flung  down  at  random,  these  figures  sprawled 
upon  the  green  or  leaned  against  the  iron  fence, 
their  white  shirts  barred  by  its  black  palings.  There 
was  no  air  for  them  and  they  protested  in  a  high, 
insistent  monotone ;  not  for  warmth  had  they  sought 
America.  In  the  hot  lamplight  the  Square  had  a 
garish  look. 

Mrs.  Copley  sat  fanning  herself.  Magnified  by 
the  heat,  the  voices  outside  poured  through  the  win- 
dow in  an  irritating  drone. 

"  If  they  would  only  keep  quiet!  "  she  remarked 
for  the  tenth  time.  But  neither  Rosalind  nor  Eric 
observed  that  she  had  spoken. 

Apart  from  the  physical  discomfort  caused  by  the 
breathless  heat,  Mrs.  Copley  was  dissatisfied  in  her 

293 


294  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

mind.  In  the  morning  she  had  put  on  her  cap  of 
virtue;  she  had  determined  to  speak  to  Rosalind  as 
a  mother  should  speak  to  a  daughter,  to  tell  the 
truth  about  Eric,  to  give,  in  short,  advice  and  guid- 
ance. This  elucidation,  a  duty  both  to  Rosalind  and 
to  the  world,  the  news  of  Benjamin's  accident  and 
the  hurried  dash  to  town  had  postponed  from  hour 
to  hour,  and  her  maternal  wisdom  still  lay  heavily 
upon  a  wearied  brain.  Few  parental  ailments  are 
as  painful  as  an  attack  of  dyspeptic  virtue  —  and 
the  day  long  there  had  been  no  relief.  Since  Rosa- 
lind's return  from  the  hospital  the  time  had  passed 
in  preoccupied  silence,  with  only  an  occasional  mes- 
sage from  Dr.  Gary  to  break  the  sultry  monotony. 
Alternately  the  news  was  good  and  bad,  as  Ben- 
jamin gained  or  lost  advantage  in  his  close  and  ter- 
rible struggle  with  death. 

Bells  throughout  the  city  struck  nine  o'clock. 
The  sound  reverberated  as  if  mountainous  balls  of 
lead  were  being  rolled  on  the  heavy  air.  Dropping 
a  magazine  which  he  had  been  making  a  feeble  pre- 
tence to  read,  Eric  stood  up  and  would  have  liked  to 
stretch. 

"  Dp  you  want  to  go  out,  Rose?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  imagine  it  is  worse  out  of  doors  than  here," 
interposed  Mrs.  Copley. 

"  It's  not  possible."  There  was  a  shade  of  petu- 
lance in  Rosalind's  voice.  She  wished  that  she  and 
Eric  might  be  alone.  Had  he  felt  the  consecration 
of  this  room?  But  one  little  day  past  she  had 
been  in  his  arms  in  the  very  spot  where  now  she 
stood. 

"  It's  worth  trying,"  Eric  persisted. 

Rosalind  looked  gratefully  towards  him. 

"  Thanks,  Eric,  but  I  can't.     Dr.  Gary  said  he'd 


A  DECISION  TO  MAKE  295 

call  me  up  himself  at  nine.  I  must  stay."  She 
sank  into  a  chair.  "  And  I'm  so  tired;  it  seems  as  if 
my  head  would  split." 

"  I'm  sorry,  dear." 

His  voice  was  but  a  whisper  on  the  air,  audible 
to  her  alone.  As  it  sank  into  her  heart,  she  forgot 
Benjamin  and  dwelt  through  Eric's  thoughtfulness 
and  love  in  a  different  world.  But  almost  in  the 
same  moment  her  self-pity  seemed  mean  and  base, 
and  she  hated  herself. 

A  bell  buzzed  distantly  in  the  house. 

"  That's  Dr.  Gary." 

Rosalind  moved  to  the  door. 

"You're  coming  back,  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Cop- 
ley. She  must  speak  to-night. 

But  Rosalind  was  gone.  The  telephone  was  in  a 
dark  embrasure  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  where  the 
heat  was  packed  tight,  layer  on  layer  of  it,  deadened 
there  from  morning.  For  a  moment  Rosalind  was 
dizzy,  and  she  found  sweat  upon  her  lips  as  she  put 
them  to  the  mouth-piece. 

"Rosalind?" 

"  Yes,  Dr.  Cary?  " 

"  Both  legs  are  set  and  he  is  more  comfortable. 
He  has  just  come  out  of  the  ether." 

"  I  am  so  glad  1  "  Rosalind  murmured. 

"  I  was  with  him  as  he  —  I  heard  a  great  many 
things,  Rosalind." 

Though  faded  with  weariness,  the  doctor's  voice 
was  very  kind.  The  receiver  trembled  in  her  hand, 
and  her  voice  was  so  unsteady  that  she  dared  not 
entrust  more  than  a  monosyllable  to  it. 

"Yes?" 

"  I  know  now  what  engagement  he  had  to  keep. 
Poor  girl !  I  am  sorry  for  you !  " 


296  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

He  was  sorry  for  her!  She  leaned  against  the 
warm  wall. 

"  Doctor  .  .  ." 

"I  have  always  been  very  —  well,  never  mind! 
You  will  come  to-morrow  morning?  " 

'  What  time?  "  she  managed  to  articulate. 

"  Early.  Ten  o'clock.  He  expects  you  to  come; 
it  means  —  well,  everything!  " 

Rosalind  shut  her  eyes  tight. 

"Doctor!"  Her  voice  was  small  and  distant. 
"Will  he  — live?  Is  it—?" 

A  moment's  pause  gave  her  strength. 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  truth,  Rosalind,  because  it  is 
well  for  you  to  know.  We  cannot  be  definite  yet. 
With  God's  help,  yes.  I  think  so.  Oh,  God!  I 
think  so !  "  His  voice  rang  in  momentary  despair. 
"  You  can  help,  Rosalind." 

She  said  something  —  she  hoped  so,  she  wished 
so,  she  would  try  to  help,  she  would  do  her  best. 
The  words  were  not  hers. 

"  Then  good-night.  To-morrow  morning  at 
about  ten." 

"  Ten,"  she  echoed.     "  Good-night." 

He  had  rung  off.  As  she  groped  for  the  table 
to  replace  the  telephone,  a  step  sounded  in  the  hall- 
way. She  fumbled  for  her  handkerchief  with  a  hand 
which  felt  weak  and  numb,  and  wiped  her  forehead 
and  lips. 

"Well?"  asked  a  low  voice.  Eric  was  beside 
her  in  the  darkness. 

'  They  do  not  know.     He  —  he  may  live." 

She  felt  Eric's  fists  clench  at  his  side. 

"  Don't,  Eric." 

The  oppressiveness  of  the  embrasure  weighing 
upon  her,  she  placed  her  hand  on  his  arm  for  sup- 


A  DECISION  TO  MAKE  297 

port.  Her  brain  whirled  with  the  strain  and  heat 
of  the  day;  she  wanted  to  break  down,  to  weep,  and 
to  be  comforted,  but  the  thought  of  Benjamin  reigned 
above  her  desire.  She  must  not  weaken;  she  must 
be  firm  and  clear  in  her  consideration. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said  in  a  breathless  voice.  "  I 
am  exhausted,  Eric;  I  must  go." 

^  Will  you  leave  me  like  this  ?  " 

She  felt  that  she  was  hurting  him,  but  did  not 
dare  trust  herself  in  speech.  To  preserve  a  shred  of 
equilibrium  it  was  necessary  to  quit  Eric,  to  be  alone 
at  once.  As  she  took  a  step  from  the  embrasure, 
she  was  caught  up  in  a  silent  embrace  which  made 
the  blood  beat  fiercely  through  her  body  and  fading 
stars  dance  before  her  closed  eyes.  In  the  sudden 
tumult  of  her  heart  all  thought  of  resistance  van- 
ished and  she  raised  her  hands  to  Eric's  head,  ming- 
ling her  fingers  in  the  dampness  of  his  curls.  As 
their  faces  burned  together,  her  dishevelled  hair,  wet 
about  her  temples,  caught  upon  his  cheek,  and  her 
lips,  moving  as  the  lips  upon  them  moved,  murmured 
fragments  of  the  lover's  litany.  She  was  without 
strength  or  motion,  without  will  or  wisdom,  a  weight 
clinging  to  his  breast.  Something  of  the  oblivion 
of  death  drifted  between  them  and  the  weary  world; 
where  they  stood  it  was  cool  and  distant  from  earthly 
revolution. 

A  flaming  arrow  suddenly  burned  its  path  into 
her  brain.  After  the  first  unrestrained  moment  she 
remembered,  and  wrenched  herself  from  the  stifling 
lock  of  Eric's  arms.  Stumbling  down  the  hallway 
and  up  the  stairs,  she  reached  her  room,  where  she 
flung  herself  upon  the  bed  in  abandonment.  A  fire 
of  self-reproach  consumed  her,  and,  deep  in  the 
pillows,  her  face  was  hot  with  the  kiss  to  which  she 


298  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

had  resigned  herself  —  while  Benjamin  was  rising 
from  the  arms  of  death  because  he  trusted  in  her 
love.  How  weak,  how  unpardonably  miserable  she 
had  been!  In  one  moment  she  could  talk  to  Dr. 
Gary  in  sympathy  for  the  suffering  of  Benjamin, 
she  could  allow  him  to  believe  that  she  loved  his 
son  and  would  marry  him;  in  another,  she  had  per- 
mitted, nay,  lived  in  the  embrace  of  his  greatest  rival. 
It  was  mean,  unchivalric,  revolting;  it  poisoned  her 
sense  of  justice. 

There  was  some  one  in  her  room.  Though  in 
her  self-castigation  she  had  heard  no  sound  of  an 
opening  door,  she  underwent  that  curious  sensation 
of  being  looked  at.  Without  raising  her  head  she 
held  her  breath  and  was  in  a  moment  strangling  in 
the  hot  pillow.  Could  it  be  Eric?  She  was  fright- 
ened, and  a  mixture  of  desire,  anger,  and  shame  at 
her  own  weakness  possessed  her  turbulent  mind. 
Then  a  cool  hand  touched  her  head.  Like  a  dying 
spurt  of  water  the  blood  receded  through  her  body; 
faster  and  faster  it  fled  away,  leaving  her  shivering 
and  weak  as  after  an  outburst  of  childish  grief.  It 
was  her  mother's  hand. 

"  My  dear  Rose,  what  is  it?  Tell  me,  tell  your 
old  mother,  Rose.  Let  me  help,  dearest." 

Rosalind  felt  her  mother's  lips  upon  the  back  of 
her  neck  and  her  pearls  brushing  over  her  shoulders. 
The  cool  hand  ruffled  her  warm  hair  in  an  effort  to 
comfort. 

"  Is  it  Benjamin,  darling?     He  is  not  worse?  " 

Ashamed  of  herself  and  of  the  tear-stains  on  her 
face,  Rosalind  sat  up.  She  did  not  look  at  her 
mother,  but  took  her  hand  gratefully. 

"  No,  Mamma.     He  will  live." 

Mrs.  Copley  wondered  at  the  bleakness  in  Rosa- 


A  DECISION  TO  MAKE  299 

lind's  voice,  wondered  to  find  her  daughter  —  so 
controlled  and  mature  that  in  many  ways  she  seemed 
an  equal  —  in  a  passion  of  tears. 

"Can  I  help?" 

"  No,  Mamma.     I  am  tired." 

"  Little  wonder,  darling.  It  has  been  a  long, 
hard,  hot  day.  Go  to  bed  and  rest:  a  sleep  will  do 
you  good.  Shall  I  have  Edouard  bring  a  fan?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  answered  dully.  Her 
mother  was  kind,  but  Rosalind  wished  to  be  alone 
and  think.  To-morrow  was  June  first,  and  in  this 
night  her  life  must  be  planned. 

"•I  think  I  feel  a  breeze."  Her  mother's  hand 
was  silhouetted  gracefully  against  the  darkness  of 
the  opened  window.  "  It  will  surely  be  cooler." 

"  Yes." 

Mrs.  Copley  looked  uneasily  into  the  outer  dark- 
ness. Could  she  speak  of  Eric  now?  Perhaps  the 
best  moment  for  such  a  relation  was  one  of  stress. 

"  Rose." 

"Yes,  Mamma?"  Her  head  throbbed.  Why 
could  she  not  be  left  alone? 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

Rosalind's  silence  made  the  telling  seem  to  her 
mother  much  harder  now,  and  her  courage  wavered. 

"  You  —  you  —  are  listening?  " 

Rosalind  nodded  and  a  braid  of  her  dishevelled 
hair  tumbled  down  her  back.  Raising  her  arms, 
she  allowed  the  rest  to  fall.  It  was  cooler  so. 

"  Your  father  and  I  have  talked  it  over  and  we 
have  felt  it  our  duty,  though  it  may  be  an  unpleas- 
ant one,  to  tell  you  what  we  know."  (What  was 
she  saying,  Rosalind  wondered.  Would  she  not  go 
away?  It  was  cruel  to  talk  to  her  when  she  was 
so  tired  and  sad.)  "You  know  that  we  have  al- 


300  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

ways  wanted  you  to  be  happy.  We  have  given  you 
everything  that  we  thought  it  best  for  you  to  have. 
And  you  have  realised  it;  you  have  been  a  dear 
daughter,  Rosalind.  Your  father  and  I  are  proud 
of  you,  and  there  is  nothing  which  can  make  a  mother 
more  happy  than  to  be  proud  of  her  children." 
(How  sententious  kind  mothers  can  be!  One  by 
one  Rosalind  felt  her  nerves  wearing,  fraying,  snap- 
ping.) "  What  I  have  to  say  to  you  is  about  Eric." 

"Please,  Mamma!  Please  don't!"  Rosalind 
sprang  to  her  feet,  her  gold  hair  shadowing  down 
her  back.  There  was  pleading  and  weariness  in  her 
voice.  "  I  can't  stand  any  more  to-night." 

"But—" 

"Please!  If  you  love  me!"  Rosalind  cried  a 
little  hysterically.  It  was  too  much  for  her  to  bear ! 
She  could  not,  would  not  listen;  she  would  run  out 
in  the  street,  but  of  Eric  she  would  hear  nothing. 

"Why,  Rose!" 

Mrs.  Copley  was  alarmed.  She  regarded  her 
daughter  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  just  discovered 
that  an  innocent  hill,  crowned  with  marigolds  and 
daisies,  is  volcanic. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Mamma,  but  I'm  unstrung  with  all  the 
excitement.  To-morrow.  Any  day;  but  not  now." 

She  put  her  arms  round  her  mother's  neck  and 
kissed  the  lovely  face.  She  was  proud  of  her 
mother,  worshipped  her  beauty,  admired  her  tact, 
adored  her  with  all  her  love ;  but  no  one  could  help 
her  now.  She  must  work  out  her  existence  by  fyer- 
self. 

"My  little  girl!" 

"  Good-night,  Mumsie  !  " 

"Good-night.;' 

Listening  until  she  heard  her  mother  enter  her 


A  DECISION  TO  MAKE  301 

own  room,  Rosalind  shut  and  locked  the  door.  Then 
she  flung  herself  on  her  bed  and  lay  for  a  long  time, 
supine  and  still. 

Gradually  thought  formed  itself  in  her  mind,  al- 
most as  it  does  from  the  chaos  of  sensations  in  the 
child's  brain.  For  a  while  she  had  been  unable  to 
think;  now  the  thoughts  pieced  themselves  together, 
here  a  little  and  there  a  little,  marshalling  them- 
selves into  lines  of  increasing  regularity.  As  she 
began  to  understand  more  clearly  the  problem  be- 
fore her,  the  feeling  of  exhaustion  diminished,  and 
she  arose  from  the  bed  and  switched  off  the  lights. 
It  would  be  easier  to  think  in  the  dark.  Drawing 
an  armchair  to  the  window,  she  sat  down.  Through 
the  cloud-haze  no  stars  were  visible  and  she  could 
see  only  the  nearest  lights  of  the  Esplanade,  mistily 
shining  as  if  through  a  veil. 

The  problem  was  clear.  It  was  the  happiness  of 
her  life  which  she  was  to  decide,  and  the  judgment 
must  fall  to  either  Eric  or  Benjamin.  The  former 
she  loved :  the  latter  she  did  not.  Entering  her  life 
suddenly  and  abruptly,  Eric  had  swept  her  from  her 
feet  and  had  possessed  almost  in  a  day  her  thoughts 
and  her  being.  One  need  not  necessarily  be  a  fatal- 
ist to  feel  that  a  certain  person  fulfils  every  require- 
ment, is  endowed  with  every  desired  attribute,  and 
comprehends  the  sympathy  and  worth  of  living  in 
his  life.  Love  is  after  all  a  sensation  and  not  a 
belief.  When  a  woman  feels  that  a  certain  man 
is  the  incarnation  of  what  in  the  nights  of  her  maid- 
enhood she  has  dreamed  of,  when  she  feels  that 
"  even  his  stubbornness,  his  checks  and  frowns  have 
grace  and  favour  in  them,"  then  she  is  dependent  on 
her  heart  and  not  on  her  brain.  So  Rosalind  had 
felt;  so  to  her  heart  of  hearts  she  had  talked  hyper- 


302  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

boles  of  Eric.  But  she  was  convinced  also  that  her 
love  was  built  upon  a  rock.  Had  she  not  tested 
her  love  by  an  analysis  of  reason?  In  every  light 
she  had  found  him  fair;  in  every  position  she  had 
found  him  worthy;  in  every  minute  she  had  found 
him  to  be  desired  above  all  things.  How  was  he 
not  then  the  perfect  comrade?  Intense  and  pure 
had  been  her  adoration.  It  had  burned  in  her 
heart  like  a  white,  hot  flame  which  consumes  all 
opposition,  a  white,  hot  flame  which  grows  and 
dances  whiter  and  hotter  the  more  it  is  fed.  Even 
now  it  burned  within  her  as  she  thought  of  Eric, 
and  the  decorum  of  two  centuries  of  calmly  proper 
ancestors  suffered  an  abeyance  of  control.  Having 
given  her  lips  to  Eric,  was  she  not  his?  He  pos- 
sessed her  heart,  her  mind,  her  soul;  the  promise 
of  the  insignificant  casing  of  her  flesh  had  lain  in 
their  first  kiss.  Life  without  love  she  could  not 
contemplate;  and  Eric  was  love,  and  therefore,  life. 
It  was  difficult  to  turn  from  this  radiant  field  to 
a  thorny  path,  but  what  of  Benjamin?  At  first,  she 
recollected  that  she  had  liked  him;  the  unconscious 
attraction  which  all  women  find  in  big,  healthy  men 
had  stirred  her.  When  the  edge  of  that  attraction 
was  dulled,  she  had  found  him  only  a  machine,  quite 
lacking  in  voluntary  response.  His  eyes,  keen  in 
business,  were  shallow  in  art;  the  depth  of  his  soul 
was  readily  plumbed.  Had  not  fate  struck  him 
down,  he  would  have  succeeded;  such  men,  strong, 
iron-willed,  dogged,  determined,  such  men  always 
succeed,  but  the  failure  of  a  Blake  or  a  Chatterton 
to  some  ways  of  thinking  is  the  better  success.  Not 
that  Rosalind  thought  Eric  a  Blake  or  a  Chatter- 
ton;  but  she  knew  that  whisperings  of  genius  did 


A  DECISION  TO  MAKE  303 

stir  within  him,  for  she  had  heard  them  when  her 
lips  were  close  to  his  and  she  had  seen 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land 

gleam  in  his  eyes. 

This  whisper,  this  light  was  not  in  Benjamin. 
Taking  him  in  all,  he  was  a  man.  But  Rosalind  had 
wanted  a  great  deal  more  and  had  found  echoes  of 
it  in  Eric.  Call  this  rhapsodising  if  you  will;  Rosa- 
lind was  still  young  enough  to  find  much  truth  to 
nature  in  rhapsody.  About  her  friendship  with 
Benjamin  she  could  weave  no  imaginative  halo. 
Like  himself,  it  was  a  question  of  fact,  and  she  had 
long  ago  been  forced  to  pin  herself  to  a  day  on  which 
to  define  her  attitude  towards  him.  To-morrow 
was  that  day;  to-morrow  she  was  to  answer  yes  or 
no.  Which  should  it  be?  Her  part  of  woman 
cried  out  against  the  former.  What!  give  all  her 
youth,  all  her  life  on  earth  to  a  cripple,  to  the  wreck 
of  a  man  whom  she  had  never  loved?  It  could  not 
be  thought  on!  Marry  a  paralytic  to  be  his  nurse 
through  a  sad  existence,  when  Eric  offered  her 
health,  genius,  and  love?  A  thousand  times  no  I 

From  thinking  on  Benjamin  her  mind  reverted  to 
his  father.  It  was  of  no  use  to  be  brave  while  his 
sad,  tired  eyes  stared  at  her,  and  while  she  felt  his 
hands  upon  her  shoulders,  his  paternal  lips  upon  her 
cheek.  If  she  refused  Benjamin,  how  could  she 
meet  those  eyes  again?  It  was  her  fault  that  his 
son's  life  had  been  shattered,  all,  all  her  fault,  and 
despite  the  doctor's  kindness  she  knew  that  he  held 
her  responsible.  Aware  of  their  secret,  he  was 
aware  also  of  Benjamin's  sacrifice. 

A  flicker  of  indignation  flared  in  her  heart.     Sac- 


3o4  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

rifice?  Benjamin  need  not  have  come  unless  he  so 
desired;  surely  she  had  not  wanted  him.  But  he 
had  come,  and  there  lay  the  bitter  truth.  The  world 
would  hold  her  guilty;  it  would  demand  a  life  for  a 
life,  the  promise  and  beauty  of  hers  for  the  battered 
wreck  of  his.  God !  What  an  exchange !  It  was 
right,  but  was  it  fair?  Was  it  fair  that  she  fade 
the  rose  of  her  youth  in  striving  to  soften  his  pain, 
in  wheeling  him,  feeding  him,  tending  him,  in  sitting 
beside  him  during  long  winter  nights  when  joy  seems 
asleep,  in  bringing  him  flowers  in  summer  when  her 
heart  lay  over  the  golden  horizon,  in  loving  him 
as  best  she  could,  and,  when  memories  streamed 
back  to  damn  her  choice,  in  tolerating  his  love  with 
lip-smiles?  Sure  this  was  a  barren  counterpart  to 
what  she  would  have  made  of  life.  Yet,  however 
barren,  it  was  her  duty.  Duty  is  indeed  a  stern 
daughter  of  the  voice  of  God,  an  inexorable,  unre- 
lenting, unkind  mockery  made  for  the  scientific  reg- 
ulation of  life.  Yet  this  time  it  was  synonymous 
with  chivalry.  To  marry  Benjamin  would  be  in  the 
highest  sense  of  the  word  chivalric,  would  be  an  act 
commensurate  with  what  we  like  to  think  is  noblest 
on  this  pinfold  earth.  What  if  no  one  ever  knew 
the  greatness  of  her  sacrifice?  What  if  the  world 
thought  she  was  marrying  Benjamin,  because  she 
would  allow  no  injury  to  come  between  her  and  her 
love  ?  Ah !  well !  The  world  is  a  small,  greasy 
spot  in  comparison  with  eternity.  We  are  not 
placed  here  by  Divine  Command  to  lay  attentive  ears 
to  earth  and  regulate  our  lives  by  what  we  hear,  but 
to  rise  above  ourselves.  Cast  before  her  was  an  op- 
portunity to  fulfil  the  purpose  for  which  a  soul  had 
entered  her  body.  To  neglect  it  would  be  sin. 
By  degrees  Rosalind  found  herself  rising  to  a 


A  DECISION  TO  MAKE  305 

loftier  pitch,  which  was  not  happiness,  but  which  so 
satisfied  her  conscience  that  it  left  her  calm.  She 
thought  of  Dr.  Gary  again  and  of  his  kindness  to  her 
godfather,  of  how  for  years  his  skill  had  prolonged 
the  invalid's  life.  Would  it  be  gratitude  fair  in  the 
eyes  of  Heaven  to  break  his  son's  heart,  when  she 
had  already  destroyed  the  body?  Her  promise 
might  mean  life  to  Benjamin.  Had  not  that  lain 
under  Dr.  Gary's  words?  It  made  her  shudder  to 
think  that  a  human  life  depended  on  her  will ;  but  as 
the  tremor  stirred  her  body,  it  strengthened  her  half- 
formed  determination. 

Two  paths  lay  before  her,  the  one  insufferably 
beautiful,  the  other  stern  and  hard;  yet  she  thought 
the  latter  might  be  easier  to  tread.  Conscience, 
which  of  old  drove  Adam  into  an  abyss  of  fears,  is 
a  terrible  thing.  How  relentlessly  would  it  dog  her 
if  she  chose  Eric!  No  sweetness  on  this  earth  could 
banish  it  from  her  pathway.  But  chivalry  is  strong, 
and  it  would  always  be  her  guide  and  comforter, 
however  bleak  and  dull  the  way,  if  she  gave  yes  to 
Benjamin. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A    DECISION   MADE 

ROSALIND  walked  slowly  down  the  hall  from 
her  room.  Morning  had  come  and  with  the 
clean,  fresh  sunshine  a  kind  of  strength.  It 
is  never  so  hard  to  live  in  the  morning;  there  is  a 
sense  of  utter  revelation  and  open-heartedness  which 
simplifies  existence.  For  the  time  being  mortal 
woes,  which  cling  and  brutify  with  the  encircling  of 
night,  seem  superficial:  in  the  splendour  of  day's 
rebirth  the  personal  element  must  appear  small  and 
mean. 

So  Rosalind  went  out  to  meet  her  lover  with  a 
courage  that  deceived  herself.  On  the  way  to  the 
stairs  she  passed  her  mother's  room,  and,  the  remem- 
brance of  the  night  before  cutting  keen  into  her  duti- 
ful mind,  she  paused  with  her  finger  on  her  lips  and 
her  brow  wrinkled.  What  had  it  been  all  about? 
Something  in  regard  to  Eric?  Quietly  she  opened 
the  door  and  stepped  inside. 

Mrs.  Copley  was  eating  iced  grapes.  In  a  cloud 
of  lace  and  silk,  the  soft,  fluttering  nothings  of  fairy 
web  which  summer  temperatures  demand,  she  re- 
clined in  bed  like  some  beautiful  and  discontented 
Pompadour.  There  is  not  one  woman  in  a  million 
to-day  capable  of  holding  a  petit  lever;  the  feminine 
art  of  being  beautiful  in  bed  is  lost,  lost  forever  in 
the  swirl  of  suffrage  and  golf  and  bridge.  Not  so 
with  Mrs.  Copley:  no  art  of  beauty  was  lost  to  her. 

306 


A  DECISION  MADE  307 

Upon  her  silver  hair  a  mist  —  it  was  no  more  than 
that  —  a  transparent  mist  of  lace,  such  as  Pease- 
blossom  might  have  brought  to  adorn  Titania;  her 
neck  and  bosom  bare  and  shaped  to  the  gentle  intake 
of  her  breath;  the  silken  white  coverlet  suggesting 
grace  beneath;  the  crystal  dish  of  ice  and  sea-green 
grapes;  and  over  these  her  hand  flitting  like  a  sky- 
lark winged  from  the  blue  deep. 

"Oh,  Rose,  what  a  terrible  night!"  A  kiss. 
"I  am  sure  I  scarcely  closed  my  eyes.  Grapes? 
They're  deliciously  cool;  I  couldn't  bear  anything 
else  this  morning." 

Absently  Rosalind  chose  one  from  a  shining 
cluster. 

"  I  thought  on  my  way  down,  Mamma,  I'd  —  I'm 
afraid  I  wasn't  very  agreeable  last  night.  I  was  ex- 
hausted. What  was  it  you  wanted  to  say?  " 

A  flush  crept  into  Mrs.  Copley's  cheeks.  In  the 
preoccupying  discomfort  of  the  hot  night  she  had  for- 
gotten her  yesterday's  determination.  No  morality 
is  a  match  for  temperature.  With  a  great  grape 
half  way  to  her  curved  lips,  her  soft,  white  hand 
paused. 

"  It  was  something  I  —  that  is,  we,  your  father 
and  I  —  wished  you  to  know  a-about  Eric." 

Rosalind  was  very  still.  She  sat  upon  the  foot 
of  her  mother's  bed,  her  eyes  bent  upon  the  myriad 
motes  of  sunlight  flickering  on  the  cracked  ice. 

"  I  —  we  think  you  ought  to  know,"  Mrs.  Copley 
hurried  on  to  get  it  over  with.  "  He  —  he  is  not 
Monsieur  Rolland's  son." 

"Well?"  Rosalind's  voice  was  even,  undis- 
turbed. 

"He  is  ...  he  is  ille — "  (No,  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  use  that  word  to  her  daughter;  from 


308  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

such  contamination,  even  of  speech,  Rosalind  should 
be  apart.)  "  He  is  your  godfather's  son,  dear." 

She  swallowed  a  grape  hastily  and  choked  over  it 
a  little;  Rosalind's  clear  gaze  was  upon  her. 

"Uncle  Sing-Sing's  son?  But  he  wasn't  mar- 
ried, Mamma  !  "  Busied  with  a  ribbon  on  her  night- 
gown, Mrs.  Copley  did  not  look  up.  She  could  not. 
In  the  experienced  eye  of  her  mind  she  saw  bright 
colour  flood  into  her  daughter's  face  as  realisation 
came;  and  in  that  moment  regretted  her  presump- 
tuous virtue  with  all  her  heart.  "  Oh,  Mamma, 
Mamma,  you  don't  mean  —  yes,  you  do.  You  mean 

—  that  .  .  ."     Rosalind    twisted    her    hands    to- 
gether in  a  passionate  confusion  of  feeling.     "  Eric 
doesn't  know,  Mamma.     I'm  sure  he  does  not  know. 
He  never  — " 

She  broke  off.  It  was  on  her  lips  to  speak  of 
his  love,  to  declare  her  faith  that  he  would  not  have 
sought  her  heart  with  this  secret  untold. 

"  He  has  never  known,"  returned  Mrs.  Copley, 
glad  to  bring  some  comfort.  A  sudden  ability  to  do 
her  task  filled  her  heart:  she  laid  aside  the  grapes 
and  took  her  daughter's  hand.  "  Darling,  I  told 
you  this  because  I  — "  her  voice  sank  very  low  — "  I 
did  not  want  you  to  marry  any  man  without  knowing 
what  might  later  cause  regret." 

"  You  think  that  I  shall  marry  Eric?  "  Rosalind 
lingered  over  the  question.  "  No,  Mamma,  I  can- 
not. I  am  going  to  meet  him  now  and  tell  him  that  I 

—  I  cannot."     Her  voice  trembled.     Across  Mrs. 
Copley's  face  fluttered  a  shade  of  relief.     "  But  you 
are  wrong  in  thinking  that  what  you  have  told  me 
could  ever  influence  my  choice.     What  does  it  matter 
who  a  man  is,  if  you  love  him?     Birth  is  all  an  acci- 
dent.    If  I  could,  I  would  marry  the  man  I  loved  a 


A  DECISION  MADE  309 

dozen  times  over,  no  matter  what  the  world 
thought."  Rosalind's  heart  rose  within  her  like  a 
warrior  to  battle  all  mankind  for  the  ideal  of  her 
love.  So  is  it  ever  with  strong  spirits;  their  lives  are 
but  pawns  to  hazard  for  those  they  cherish. 
"  There  is  no  comfort  in  this,  Mamma;  it  makes  my 
struggle  all  the  harder.  Oh,  I  should  like  to  marry 
Eric,  to  dare  Boston,  dare  every  one  just  to  show  my 
love.  Such  a  proof  would  be  worth  having,  such  a 
proof  before  the  world !  " 

She  had  moved  to  the  door  and  stood  there,  de- 
fiant and  pure,  eager  as  Abdiel  was  of  old  to  do 
battle  against  the  countless  enemies  of  his  ideal  and 
Master. 

"  Yes,  dear.     You  are  right." 

Her  mother  took  the  crystal  salver  in  her  lap  again 
and  plucked  a  grape.  It  was  very  comforting  to 
know  that  Rosalind  was  after  all  not  going  to  marry 
this  foreigner;  the  rather  headlong  words  she  had 
just  uttered  were  beside  the  point. 

Mrs.  Copley  looked  up  with  a  bright,  engaging 
smile ;  but  her  daughter  was  no  longer  in  the  room. 

Eric  was  standing  by  the  window  in  the  library, 
waiting.  The  white  curtains  fluttered  idly  beside  his 
hand ;  save  for  that,  it  was  very  still. 

When  Rosalind  entered  the  room,  he  went  to  her 
with  unaffected  sympathy  and  love  to  take  her  in  his 
embrace. 

"  Wait,  Eric.     I  — " 

His  arms  fell  to  his  side.  There  was  something 
in  her  voice  and  eyes  that  frightened  him. 

"  Rose,  what  is  it  ?  What  has  happened  ?  There 
is  something,  I  know.  Since  yesterday  there  has 
been  a  change.  You  asked  me  to  wait  and  to  trust 


3io  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

you.  So  I  have,  dearest;  so  I  always  shall.  But  I 
am  human.  .  .  .  When  will  you  tell  me  what  it  is?  " 

"  Now." 

He  found  Rosalind's  lifted  eyes  suddenly  bright 
and  brave,  and  wondered. 

"  Don't  tell  me,  dearest,  unless — " 

"  I  must." 

A  kind  of  fatalism  rang  in  Rosalind's  voice  and 
she  abhorred  the  sound.  Her  reserve  was  but  play- 
acting, hateful  however  necessary;  yet  for  a  time 
she  hesitated  to  break  it.  These  were  the  last  mo- 
ments of  her  happiness;  she  must  be  firm  and  not 
waver.  What  she  had  so  recently  learned  from  her 
mother  fired  her  mind,  flaming  athwart  her  cool  de- 
cision of  the  night  before  and  urging  her  to  marry 
Eric  in  a  pre-eminent  vindication  of  her  love.  Yet 
he  must  never  know,  she  whispered  to  herself,  he 
must  never  know.  She  must  bear  his  burden  for 
him. 

"  Eric!  "  she  burst  forth.  "  I  will  tell  you  now. 
Promise  that  you  will  listen." 

As  he  nodded,  the  sunlight  danced  upon  the  top 
of  his  head  and  a  shadow  streaked  across  his  face. 

"  It's  about  Benjamin.  He  loved  me.  You 
know  what  sort  he  is,  Eric,  determined  and  insistent. 
He  asked  me  last  March  and  wouldn't  take  no, 
though  I  told  him  I  didn't  love  him.  I  liked  him 
well  enough,  and  to  save  his  feelings  I  said  I'd  try  to 
love  him.  Weeks  ago  we  agreed  on  a  day  when  I 
should  give  an  answer,  a  —  a  —  well,  tell  him  the 
result  of  my  trying.  To-day  is  that  day  —  June 
first." 

Her  nervous  fingers  moved  a  button  of  the  sofa 
on  which  they  sat  in  endless  revolution;  her  eyes, 
which  she  dared  not  lift  to  Eric's  face,  fell  upon  his 


A  DECISION  MADE  311 

long-fingered  hand,  resting  on  his  knee  in  the  sun- 
light. 

"  I  did  try,  Eric,  until  you  came.  Then  it  was  no 
use.  I  —  I  loved  you  always,  from  the  very  first, 
and  it  has  been  rare  and  sweet,  dearest."  The  feel- 
ing of  tears  was  in  her  eyes  and  she  sought  to  hold 
them  back.  "  Benjamin  never  quite  understood  my 
heart.  He  could  not.  He  thought  with  the  assur- 
ance of  such  men  that  it  would  all  come  out  right  in 
the  end,  that  you  were  only  a  passing  fancy.  His 
letters  from  New  Orleans  showed  me  that  he  did  not 
understand.  I  tried  to  let  him  know.  I  tried  to  let 
him  down  gently,  but  it  only  made  things  worse. 
Oh!  it  was  hateful!  If  I  had  to  say  no,  I  should 
have  done  it  at  once.  But  I  put  it  off ;  I  was  a  cow- 
ard; and  then,  I  was  in  love."  She  smiled  wist- 
fully. "  Benjamin  went  to  New  Orleans,  you  know, 
on  business.  He  hoped  to  finish  by  June  first,  but  he 
didn't  and  left  in  the  middle  of  things  to  come  back 
for  my  answer.  Dr.  Gary  told  me  that.  And  then 
—  then  the  accident." 

"  But  — "  Eric  murmured.  He  felt  a  great  still- 
ness in  his  heart. 

"  Please,  Eric !  "  she  pleaded.  "  Ben  came  back 
because  he  expected  I  was  going  to  say  yes.  He  was 
sure  of  it.  If  he  had  only  known  my  mind,  there 
never  would  have  been  this  accident.  It's  my  fault, 
you  see.  He  was  justified  in  thinking  that  I  would 
say  yes.  It  was  natural;  why  not?  Yesterday, 
when  I  went  to  the  hospital,  Dr.  Gary  took  me  in  his 
arms,  and  last  night  over  the  telephone  — "  Rosa- 
lind broke  off,  her  voice  drying  in  her  throat.  "  I 
went  into  Ben's  room  yesterday,  Eric.  They  say  he 
is  wrecked,  paralysed,  crippled  for  life,  ruined !  He 
was  half-conscious  and  his  face  —  oh !  it  was  knotted 


312  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

in  pain !     Dr.  Gary  was  with  me.     I  kissed  Benja- 
min; I  had  to." 

Eric  was  flung  back  on  the  sofa,  staring  at  her  as 
if  his  eyes  would  never  close. 

"  You  don't  —  you  can't  — "  he  stammered. 

"  A  minute,  dear.  Last  night,"  she  continued 
wearily,  "  I  thought  it  out.  Don't  you  see  how  it  is, 
Eric?"  She  braced  herself,  for  she  felt  that  as 
soon  as  he  recovered  his  amazement  she  should  need 
great  strength.  "  I  cannot  marry  you,"  she  said  in 
a  low,  breaking  voice.  "  It  must  be  Benjamin." 

Without  knowing  why,  she  arose  and  made  as  if 
to  move. 

"Wait  a  moment,  Rose!  What  —  sit  down, 
please!  You  can't  decide  these  things  like  that, 
dearest.  You  can't  say  that!  " 

"  If  Ben  lives,  I  must  marry  him,"  Rosalind  re- 
iterated, as  if  the  repetition  gave  her  firmness.  But 
she  sat  down  again. 

Eric  ruffled  his  fingers  through  his  hair. 

"Why,  Rose,  you  —  you  can't  mean-r— !  You 
don't  love  him?  " 

"  I  hate  him !  "  Her  voice  rang  out  in  momen- 
tary agony.  Then  she  felt  that  she  had  overstepped. 
"  No,  I  don't  hate  him,"  she  corrected  in  a  mild, 
dead  voice.  "  I  don't  hate  him." 

"  Could  you  live  with  such  a  man?  " 

"  I  must." 

"  A  cripple,  Rose  ?  Give  all  your  youth  and  age 
to  a  cripple  ?  " 

"  I've  taken  his  from  him.  A  life  for  a  life,"  she 
repeated  from  her  thoughts  of  the  night  before. 

"No  — no!" 
'  The  world  — " 

"  The  world  is  cruel  and  unfair  I     Oh,  let  us  for- 


A  DECISION  MADE  513 

get  the  world  in  ourselves;  let's  lose  its  law  in  a 
higher  law."  He  put  his  face  near  hers,  so  near 
that  she  could  feel  his  breath  as  he  spoke  stir  over 
her  hair.  "  There  are  other  lands  than  America, 
other  peoples,  other  thoughts,  other  cares,  but  there 
are  only  two  like  ourselves.  Why,  it  is  nature,  dear- 
est, that  we  should  live  together.  Come !  Look  in 
my  face,  Rose!  Look  in  my  face  and  tell  me  that 
you  love  me !  I  know  you  do !  I  know  you  want 
me.  You've  told  me  so,  and  I've  kissed  your  lips, 
and  you're  mine,  body  and  soul,  you're  mine !  " 

As  his  arms  went  round  her,  Rosalind  felt  her 
head  swimming. 

"  Eric !  Eric !  Please !  You're  making  it  im- 
possibly hard !  You  mustn't  talk  like  this !  " 

He  left  her  and  with  hands  plunged  deep  in  his 
pockets  strode  from  the  window  to  the  door,  to  and 
fro,  forward  and  back,  exclaiming  to  himself. 

"You  can't  mean  it!  I  won't  believe  it!  It's 
impossible !  You  can't  mean  it !  " 

"  I  do,  Eric.  I  do,  indeed.  We  must  all  do 
our—" 

"Duty?"  He  anticipated  bitterly.  'Would 
you  put  duty  before  me?  " 

"  If  I  thought  it  was  right." 

Eric  realised  that  his  question  had  been  a  mis- 
take. 

"  I  am  sorry.  But  is  it  your  duty?  If  you  love 
me  —  Why!  Rose!  Your  life  will  be  a  mockery, 
a  misery  with  that  man." 

"  I  have  thought  of  my  life." 

"  Have  you  thought  of  mine?  "  he  flung  out  with 
the  inherent  selfishness  of  man. 

"  You  don't  mean  that !  " 

"  I  do !     I  do !  "  he  hurried  on  in  a  last,  great 


3  H  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

appeal.  "  It  isn't  fair  to  do  this.  There  are  two 
of  us  in  it,  Rose.  You  cannot  love  me  — " 

"  Oh,  Eric,  don't  be  cruel !  " 

"  I  want  you,  Rose.  I've  got  to  have  you  —  your 
gentleness  and  your  strength,  your  sickness  and  your 
health,  everything  about  you !  I  must  have  you !  " 

"What  of  me?"  asked  Rosalind,  caught  by  the 
tumult  of  his  passion.  "  Do  you  not  think,  Eric, 
that  I  love  you,  that  I  want  you  as  much  as  you 
want  me?  Do  you  think  because  women  are  weak 
they  cannot  love?  Love  is  our  very  being;  it's  an 
incident  with  men.  I  love  you  with  all  my  soul." 

"  Yet  you  won't  marry  me?  " 

Old,  far-off  memories  haunted  in  his  question  as  he 
hung  over  her,  his  hand  upon  her  bending  shoulder. 

"  It's  not  a  question  of  that,  Eric.     I  can't!  " 

"  You  have  finally  — " 

"If  Ben  dies,  I  shall  be  free." 

"  God !  "  Eric  sank  down  on  a  chair  beside  her, 
his  head  in  his  hands.  One  cannot  wish  for  the 
death  of  a  fellow  man! 

"  He  will  live,"  Rosalind  said  slowly.  "  He  is 
sure  that  I  will  marry  him  and  be  a  good,  loving  wife 
after  this  flurry  of  excitement.  He  will  live.  You 
see,  it  is  a  question  of  his  life  or  my  happiness." 

There  was  a  long  pause  and  the  curtain  flapped 
idly  on  the  breeze,  now  out  of  the  window,  now  in. 
When  she  spoke  again,  her  voice  was  scarcely 
audible. 

"  It  must  be  his  life." 

Eric  remained  motionless,  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
his  face  covered  by  his  hands. 

"  Eric." 

He  made  a  sign  that  he  heard. 

"  I  have  rung  the  bell.     Edouard  is  coming." 


A  DECISION  MADE  315 

Eric  arose;  his  eyes  were  wet  and  hot.  Going  to 
the  window,  he  stood  there  with  his  back  to  the 
door,  while  Edouard  silently  entered. 

"  Is  the  car  ready?  " 

'  Yes,  Miss  Roso." 

"  I  will  be  down  in  a  moment." 

When  he  had  disappeared,  Eric  turned  to  her 
again. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"  To  the  hospital  —  to  him." 

A  small  clock  ticked  upon  the  mantelpiece,  each 
moment  nearer  to  Benjamin  and  farther  from  Eric; 
save  for  that,  it  was  very  quiet  in  the  room,  very 
quiet  and  very  much  more  beautiful  than  any  room 
might  be  in  their  lives  again. 

Rosalind  moved  slowly  to  the  door.  As  she 
turned  and  looked  back  at  him,  standing  in  the  sun- 
light with  bowed  head  and  clenched  hands,  a  great 
tenderness  ruled  her,  dominating  will,  determina- 
tion, everything. 

"  Eric,  will  you  kiss  me?  "  she  asked  in  a  stifled 
voice.  "  It  is  the  last  time." 

He  came  to  her  quickly  and  silently,  and  raised 
,  her  to  his  lips. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   WORLD   SET   FREE 

ROSALIND  did  not  see  Eric  again.     Yet  she 
could  not  but  hear   rumours   of  him  —  sly, 
provocative  bits  of  gossip  spread  by  those  who 
knew  nothing  of  her  grief,  fragmentary  conversa- 
tions abruptly  ended  on  her  entrance  to  a  room,  a 
line  in  some  society  column,  a  word  in  some  letter. 
He  had  returned  to  Philadelphia  and  was  plunged  in 
work;  he  was  with  friends  there;  he  would  remain 
in  America  till  July. 

It  was  not  as  if  he  had  died,  not  as  if  some  swift, 
unpremeditated  fate  had  torn  him  from  this  earth. 
In  death  there  may  be  a  limitless  comfort;  in  life 
there  is  none.  Eric  was  living,  breathing  this  same 
air  of  Heaven,  pressing  this  same  dust  beneath  his 
heel,  within  reach  and  call  —  and  yet  more  separated 
from  her  than  if  the  grave  were  prisoning  his  young 
grace  and  beauty.  Rosalind  could  not  think  upon  it. 
Her  world  was  suddenly  narrowed  to  herself.  So 
much  of  circumscribing  space  had  been  dedicated  to 
her  love  and  made  memorable  by  its  associations  that 
she  could  not  go  to  the  old  haunts  or  sing  the  old 
songs.  The  material  world  had  become  vacuous, 
yawning,  unbearable ;  all  living  was  tangled  and  con- 
fused in  her  own  heart.  The  flood  of  feeling  op- 
pressed her  by  day,  and  her  eyes,  losing  the  colour 
of  sight,  became  mirrors  in  which  she  saw  the  world 

316 


THE  WORLD  SET,  FREE  317 

she  would  have  made  her  own;  at  night  her  love  be- 
trayed determination  in  her  dreams.  She  and  Eric 
were  continually  together  —  by  summer  seas,  on 
sun-crowned  mountains,  in  places  that  neither  had 
ever  known.  And  there  was  perfect  happiness  be- 
tween them.  To  awake  from  this  into  the  pulsing 
silence  of  a  June  night  with  the  warm  sky  pricked 
with  stars  was  to  be  robbed  of  Paradise. 

Yet  she  knew  that  there  was  no  other  way.  She 
sought  daily  to  steel  herself,  to  bring  in  her  visits  to 
the  hospital  something  more  than  a  smile  —  though 
that  cost  her  pain  enough,  to  be  sure  —  something 
more  than  solicitude.  Day  after  day  she  visited  Ben- 
jamin, day  after  day.  He  grew  better  rapidly:  his 
great  strength  fought  off  the  pain;  his  great  love 
purged  from  his  mind  the1  suffering.  Beyond  all 
hopes  he  mended.  Both  legs  set  well.  "  What  a 
day,"  a  young  interne  told  Rosalind,  "  when  we  can 
set  the  nerves  as  we  can  the  bones !  "  For  while  the 
mind  was  utterly  lucid  and  untouched,  while  other 
members  and  organs  of  the  body  retained  their  pris- 
tine vigour,  Benjamin's  legs  had  lost  their  ability  to 
move,  helpless,  motionless  in  paralysis. 

And  then  came  the  day  when  Benjamin  asked  to 
see  Rosalind  alone.  As  yet  they  had  not  spoken  of 
marriage;  as  yet  there  had  been  no  intimation  of  a 
decision  between  them.  But  to-day  Benjamin  felt 
strong,  felt  able  and  equal,  like  Sir  Andrew  Barton  in 
the  fine,  old  ballad,  "  to  rise  and  fight  again."  For 
love  was  to  him  a  fight,  a  good  fight,  to  be  sure,  but 
none  the  less  a  physical  struggle  rather  than  an  emo- 
tional phase. 

He  lay  propped  up  in  the  bed,  his  eyes  very  bright, 
his  face  pale.  Beside  him  sat  Rosalind.  Through 


318  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

the  hospital  window  floated  that  murmuring  tran- 
quillity which  is  born  on  summer  afternoons  of  the 
intermingling  and  softening  of  many  distant  sounds. 

"  Rose,"  he  began  slowly,  "  we  are  long  past  the 
first  of  June." 

'  Yes,  Ben."  She  leaned  towards  the  bed  that  he 
might  not  have  to  speak  loud ;  she  would  make  every- 
thing easy  for  him  now. 

"  And  I  want  to  say  something  .  .  .  hard  to  say. 
Do  you  know  that  my  legs  will  never  get  better? 
Has  Father  told  you?  "  She  bowed  her  head.  He 
laughed  to  comfort  her.  "  I  shall  always  be  —  sort 
of  smashed  up  like  this.  And  so  I  wanted  to  say 
...  I  wanted  to  say  that  I  felt  now  ...  as  I  am 
now  ...  I  couldn't  ask  you  to  marry  me."  He 
said  this  very  simply  and  very  bravely,  his  proud 
sense  of  right  lending  him  courage.  He  could  sur- 
render to  justice  and  to  nothing  else.  "  I  couldn't 
ask  you  to  become  the  wife  of  —  a  cripple.  I  shall 
be  of  use  in  the  world  and  do  good  work  .  .  .  but 
that  isn't  what  a  woman  wants.  So  ...  so  I 
thought  I'd  just  tell  you  about  it,"  he  finished  rather 
blankly. 

His  courage  helped  to  strengthen  Rosalind.  For 
a  moment  she  caught  at  his  renunciation  and  warmed 
her  poor  heart  with  the  beauty  which  acceptance  of 
it  offered;  then  she  remembered.  The  truth  was  too 
plain  before  her;  it  was  her  whom  every  finer  feeling 
commanded  to  make  the  sacrifice. 

"  I  am  ready,  Ben,"  she  said  in  low  tones. 

"  Ready?  You  mean?  "  In  his  voice  there  was 
a  painfully  expectant  break. 

;'  I  will  marry  you.     I  — " 

"  You  —  you  love  me  enough  to  —  what !  As  I 
am?  As  I  now  am?  Do  you  understand,  Rose? 


THE  WORLD  SET  FREE  319 

II  cannot  walk ;  I  shall  not  be  able  to  walk.     Do  you 
I*          »»  • 

realise  — 

"  Don't,  Ben !  "  She  put  her  hands  to  her  tor- 
tured brain.  The  picture  he  drew  was  too  bitterly 
faithful  of  the  future  she  must  choose,  too  uncon- 
scionably divergent  from  the  future  she  had  pictured 
with  Eric.  The  clash  was  unbearable. 

"I'm  sorry"  (in  quick  regret,  misunderstanding 
her  emotion) ,  "  forgive  me.  I  did  not  think  you  — 
you  cared  enough.  There  is  such  suddenness  in  it." 
His  mind  kept  reverting  to  the  physical  disability,  an 
obstacle  to  him  insuperable.  "  You  will  take  me  this 
way?  Oh,  Rose,  as  I  am?  You  must  love  me;  I 
was  afraid,  terribly  afraid  that  you  did  not,  but  now 
I  think  you  must." 

In  his  voice  there  was  a  kind  of  awe,  an  inspired 
wonder;  he  had  seen  a  miracle.  His  eyes  sought 
Rosalind's  face  with  the  regard  of  one  transfigured; 
his  whole  spirit  seemed  to  bend  before  her.  Be- 
neath this  worship  and  this  thankfulness  Rosalind 
trembled.  Acutely  conscious  of  the  falseness  in  her 
position,  torn  with  a  grief  for  Eric  and  a  sympathy 
for  Benjamin,  dragged  this  way  by  emotion  and  that 
by  honour,  wearied,  anguished,  exhausted  by  the 
precedent  strain,  she  felt  unequal  to  the  task  of  liv- 
ing. To  tell  Benjamin  the  truth  was  necessary; 
there  must  be  no  deceptions,  no  half-truths,  no  con- 
fusion between  them.  Out  of  the  chaos  in  her  brain 
this  one  thought  crystallised,  and  she  began  to  speak. 

"  Ben,  listen  a  moment.  I  ...  I  want  you  to 
know.  Eric  — "  she  found  his  face  very  white  and 
rigid  as  she  spoke  the  name  — "  Oh,  forgive  me,  he 
is  something  .  .  .  was  something  more  to  me  than 
you  understand.  You  never  liked  him,  Ben,  you 
never  made  him  out.  But  he  was  very  dear  to  me." 


320  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

She  paused;  and  then,  stirred  by  some  impulse  for- 
eign to  intention,  added  with  wistful  simplicity :  "  I 
loved  him  ...  I  don't  think  you  ever  appreciated 
the  —  the  depth  of  it  all.  You  were  away,  you  see, 
and  Eric  was  very  different.  It  was  not  fancy,  Ben, 
it  was  .  .  .  love." 

There  was  long,  unstirring  silence. 

A  ray  of  light  from  the  sloping  sun  crept  upward 
on  the  wall.  Something  in  its  fading  glow  tugged  at 
Rosalind's  heart;  it  was  less  bright  now  than  a 
moment  before ;  in  another  moment  it  would  be  gone. 
Gone  with  her  visionary  world  of  happiness  and 
Eric,  forever  gone. 

"  There,  it's  told  now  .  .  .  over  and  done  with, 
and  we  need  never,  never  think  more  of  it."  Her 
voice  faltered  beyond  her  control  on  the  repeated 
word.  She  sought  to  change  the  subject.  "  It 
makes  no  difference  ...  to  us.  Now,  let's  discuss 
when  you'll  be  getting  up  and  — " 

"  No,  Rose,  please,"  his  voice  cut  in  distinctly. 
"  It  does  make  a  difference." 

"  I  think  not.     I  think  I  know  myself." 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  that,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  I  thought  .  .  .  you  cared  for  me.  And  you  ao 
not.  Only  for  a  moment  I  thought  so.  It  was 
strange;  I  felt  it  strange  then.  Only  for  a  mo- 
ment." Hoping  that  she  would  speak,  he  played 
with  the  idea,  rephrasing  it  tenderly,  as  a  father 
touches  with  passionate  gentleness  the  cheek  of  a 
dying  child.  But  Rosalind  could  say  nothing. 
There  was  a  great  hungriness  in  his  voice,  when  at 
last  he  asked:  "  Then  you  do  not  .  .  .  love  me?" 

"  Not  that  way,"  she  answered  in  a  whisper. 

"  And  —  and  you  could  not  learn?  " 


THE  WORLD  SET  FREE  321 

Rosalind  clapped  her  hands  together  before  her 
face. 

'  Not  now,  Ben,  please !  While  you  are  suffer- 
ing, I  cannot." 

"  I  shall  not  suffer  so  much  when  I  am  sure,"  he 
said  with  a  pathetic  air  of  reproof. 

"  I  can  never  learn  .  .  .  now."  Her  voice  was 
gentle,  utterly  gentle,  but  something  in  it  brought  a 
cry  to  Gary's  lips. 

'  Yet  you  would  make  this  sacrifice  for  —  for 
me?  "  he  asked  timidly. 

"  Yes,  Ben." 

Again  silence  filled  the  little  room.  The  glow 
flickered  a  moment  on  the  ceiling  to  vanish  with  the 
wheel  of  day;  the  sun  had  commenced  to  shine  in  an- 
other land. 

"  You  have  taught  me  a  great  lesson,  Rose."  He 
broke  the  quiet  first.  "  You  have  made  me  strong; 
you  have  made  me  see  things  right."  That  same 
sense  of  honour  which  had  prompted  him  to  absolve 
her  from  a  pledge  because  of  his  physical  injury, 
urged  him  now  again  to  act  the  nobler  part.  A  fine 
soul  is  finest  in  adversity.  "  I  would  not  tarnish  your 
life:  it  is  too  beautiful,  too  sacred  to  me.  Marry 
you?  Take  advantage  of  my  helpless  limbs?  Oh, 
no,  no.  I  can  live  somehow,  but  not  with  your  heart 
sad  .  .  .  not  with  your  heart  sad." 

"  But,  Ben,  you  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  better  that  I  lose  you  —  far  better.  You 
need  never  feel  that  you  owe  me  anything;  you  need 
never  let  what  has  happened  be  a  cloud.  If  there  is 
any  debtor,  it  is  I." 

"  But  to  leave  you  .  .  .  like  this  .  .  ." 

"  I  shall  not  be  lonely,"  he  said  painfully  with  an 


322  LOUISBURG  SQUARE 

air  of  deep  resignation  resting  on  his  slow-moving 
lips.  "  I  shall  have  your  friendship,  your  under- 
standing." 

It  was  as  if  a  great  wind  were  blowing  in  Rosa- 
lind's heart.  At  his  words  she  felt  her  tribulations 
and  grief  vanish  as  the  distempered  pestilence  of  day 
flies  before  the  clean,  first  breeze  of  night.  She  rose 
to  her  feet,  her  heart  swelling  within  her,  and 
looked  down  upon  the  stretched  figure  on  the  bed. 

"  Ben,  you  are  making  my  life,  you  to  whom  I 
thought  I  must  give  myself  in  a  bondage.  Yes,  it 
was  that  I  thought.  May  I  take  your  hand?  I  am 
not  worth  the  touching  of  it  —  and  yet,  you  know 
how  it  is." 

The  subtle  inflection  of  her  voice  stirred  a  tremor 
across  the  white  face.  It  was  a  heavy  hand  that 
Rosalind  lifted  to  her  lips,  heavy  with  pain  and  with 
surrender. 

For  a  long  time  she  stood  thus  beside  his  bed, 
clasping  his  great,  weary  hand  and  bending  slightly 
in  the  twilight.  Like  the  falling  of  a  feather  dark- 
ness had  come,  as  silently  and  as  peacefully.  Far  in 
the  distant  sky  she  could  see  a  single  bright  star,  new- 
risen  in  the  arc  of  night;  and  its  clear,  crisp  ray  shone 
suddenly  deep  into  her  heart,  deeper  than  maiden- 
hood, deeper  than  dreams,  deep  to  where  love 
labours  and  forever  is  reborn. 

Footsteps  sounded  in  the  corridor.  She  felt  Ben's 
hand  press  hers  with  a  fierce  tenderness  and  then  re- 
lax. 

*  They  are  coming.     Oh,  good-bye  .  .  ." 

"  Ben,"  she  whispered,  "  dear,  brave  friend." 

With  this  she  turned  and  flitted  from  the  room  to 
the  world  that  she  had  painted,  to  the  world  set  for- 
ever free  —  and  to  Eric. 

FEINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


THE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  a  few 
of  the  Macmillan  novels. 


ERNEST  POOLE'S  NEW  NOVEL 


His  Family 


The  publication  of  a  new  novel  by  the  author  of  The 
Harbor  is  an  event  of  greatest  importance  in  the  literary 
world.  Rarely  has  an  American  story  met  with  the  success 
enjoyed  by  that  book  and  confident  have  the  critics  been  in 
their  predictions  as  to  Mr.  Poole's  future  work.  These 
predictions  would  seem  to  be  fully  realized  in  this  volume. 
His  Family  has  to  do  with  a  father  and  his  three  daughters, 
and  their  life  in  the  midst  of  the  modern  city's  conflicting 
currents.  These  daughters  are  very  different  one  from  the 
other  in  character  and  the  way  in  which  individually  they 
realize  earlier  ideals  or  ambitions  of  their  parent,  the  manner 
in  which  he  sees  himself  in  them  is  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing qualities  of  the  work,  that  is  tense  with  emotion,  alight 
with  vision  and  vitally  interesting  from  the  very  start  to  the 
close. 


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Changing  Winds 

BY  ST.  JOHN  G.  ERVINE 

$1.60 

Wells  has  pictured  the  tragedy  of  war  as  it  falls  upon 
people  looking  as  it  were  the  other  way.  Mr.  Ervine  in 
this  novel  "Changing  Winds,"  shows  the  same  tragic  force 
falling  upon  four  young  men  as  sparkling  and  vehemently 
alive  as  ever  were,  looking  directly  and  intently  at  life 
in  all  its  aspects;  and  accepting  war  (all  but  one  of  them) 
almost  blithely  when  it  comes.  The  title  is  from  the 
famous  sonnet,  "The  Dead,"  by  Rupert  Brooke,  to  whose 
memory  the  book  is  dedicated,  by  whose  spirit  it  is  filled. 
And,  to  use  the  words  of  the  sonnet,  these  four  lives  are 
pictured  as  "blown  by  changing  winds  to  laughter"  winds 
of  all  sorts  of  interest,  the  Irish  situation  (which  is  frankly 
and  freshly  treated),  industrialism,  society — "lit  by  the 
rich  skies  all  day."  Split,  so  blown  that  when  the  frost 
of  war  does  settle  upon  them  there  is  left  for  all  the  pathos 
(is  it  by  reason  of  art  or  the  truth  of  life?)  "a  white  un- 
broken glory,"  "a  shifting  peace  under  the  night."  The 
book  is  the  longest  and  most  ambitious  Mr.  Ervine  has 
yet  written;  it  will  rank  high  among  the  very  best  novels 
written  about  the  war. 


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Jerry 


NEW  MACMILLAN  FICTION 


BY  JACK  LONDON 


There  cannot  be  many  more  new  Jack  London  books, 
a  fact  which  will  not  only  be  a  source  of  deep  regret  to  the 
lover  of  truly  American  Literature,  but  which  also  gives 
a  very  deep  significance  to  the  announcement  of  Jerry. 
It  is  not  at  all  improbable  that  in  this  novel  Mr.  London 
has  achieved  again  the  wide-sweeping  success  that  was 
his  in  the  case  of  "  The  Call  of  the  Wild."  For  Jerry  is  a 
dog  story;  a  story  which  hi  its  big  essentials  recalls  the 
earlier  masterpiece,  and  yet  one  which  is  in  no  way  an 
echo  of  that  work,  but  quite  as  original  in  its  theme  and 
quite  as  satisfying  hi  the  way  in  which  that  theme  is 
treated. 


Benoit  Castain 

BY  MARCEL  PREVOST 

This  story  deals  with  an  episode  that  took  place  in  a 
little  corner  of  northern  France  just  after  the  outbreak 
of  the  war.  It  is  as  well  written  as  the  author's  reputa- 
tion would  lead  one  to  expect  and  has  been  splendidly 
rendered  into  English.  The  theme  is  handled  in  a  direct 
and  simple  way  and  shows  special  knowledge  of  the  sec- 
tion of  the  country  where  it  is  laid.  It  is  altogether  a 
most  interesting  human  document  in  novel  form. 


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Regiment  of  Women 

BY  CLEMENCE  DANE 

$1.50 

This  is  a  story  of  a  clash  of  wills.  How  Alwynne  Dur- 
rand,  a  sweet-natured,  optimistic  young  girl,  comes  under 
the  sway  of  Clare  Hartill,  clever,  attractive,  unprincipled, 
wholly  selfish,  and  how  in  the  end  the  spell  is  broken  by 
a  man, — this  is  the  author's  theme  and  as  she  handles  it, 
it  is  a  tremendous  theme.  Seldom  has  there  been  so  out- 
standing a  character  in  fiction  as  is  Miss  Hartill.  She 
dominates  the  entire  story,  and  though  the  reader  cannot 
like  her,  nevertheless  he  will  be  fascinated  by  her,  much 
as  Alwynne  is.  And  in  addition  to  Miss  Hartill  there  are 
other  clearly  drawn  people  in  the  book;  Alwynne,  who  is 
all  that  a  heroine  should  be;  Roger,  who  saves  Alwynne 
from  the  unhappiness  towards  which  she  seems  to  be 
moving,  and  Elsbeth,  Alwynne's  aunt,  who  more  than 
once  crosses  swords  with  Clare.  The"  tale  is  full  of  inci- 
dent and  variety  and  cannot  but  be  welcomed  by  the  reader 
who  appreciates  a  story  hi  which  real  people  move  and  act. 


Lost  Endeavour 

Another  of  John  Masefield's  earlier  works  is  now  re- 
printed. "  Lost  Endeavour  "  is  a  stirring  story  of  adven- 
ture, dealing  with  pirates  and  buccaneers,  and  life  on  the 
seas  hi  a  day  when  an  ocean  trip  was  beset  with  all  kinds 
of  dangers  and  excitements.  Those  who  have  enjoyed 
"  Captain  Margaret "  and  "  Multitude  and  Solitude"  will 
find  this  tale  equally  exhilarating. 


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Gold  Must  Be  Tried  by  Fire 

BY  RICHARD  AUMERLE  MAKER 

There  are  a  great  many  people  who  regard  Mr.  Maher's 
"  The  Shepherd  of  the  North  "  as  one  of  the  finest  stories 
published  last  year,  a  fact  which  taken  in  connection  with 
the  praise  which  critics  bestowed  upon  the  author  for  that 
book  makes  the  announcement  of  a  new  story  by  the 
same  author  of  distinct  importance.  "  Gold  Must  Be 
Tried  by  Fire  "  is  a  vivid  and  powerful  piece  of  writing, 
with  a  central  character  quite  as  satisfactory  as  was  the 
Bishop  of  the  first  tale.  This  character,  Daidie  Grattan, 
is  a  mill  hand,  who  revolts  at  the  monotonous  drudgery 
of  her  existence.  Something  closely  akin  to  tragedy 
touches  her  and  she  acquires  a  new  vision.  Fortified  with 
this  she  sets  out  to  alleviate  the  industrial  injustices 
with  which  she  is  familiar  from  her  own  personal  ex- 
perience, aiming  in  the  end  to  uplift  and  encourage  her 
people.  The  love  story  which  is  woven  into  this  is  one  of 
engaging  proportions  and  the  happy  solution  of  the 
problem  which  has  kept  the  lovers  apart  brings  the  volume 
to  a  satisfactory  close. 


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A     000136738    2 


